


then we collide

by less_than_improbable



Series: the clash had a spark [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Library, F/F, F/M, Gen, Hamish is cute, Hollywood, John has Hamish, M/M, Notting Hill AU, Parentlock, Sherlock is an actor, domestic abuse, mention of rape, mentions of abuse, very cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/less_than_improbable/pseuds/less_than_improbable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That day was as ordinary as the other days, John thought to himself. Everything was usual: managing a bookshop, taking Hamish to school, and reading some detective fiction. However, he didn't expect Sherlock Holmes, BAFTA Best Leading Actor and Hollywood extraordinaire, to walk into his bookshop and change his life forever.</p><p>----<br/>Notting Hill AU. Most of the plot is based on the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shocked. Disgustingly, utterly, stupidly, and ridiculously shocked.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Sherlock fandom. This is unbritpick-ed. I was just excited to post it. I was watching Notting Hill and then imagining Sherlock and John assuming Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant's characters. That was refreshing. Chapters 1-3 were to be beta-ed by imogenfere (thank you so much!). Please forgive me for any errors at all, for they are my faults. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Kudos to ACD, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss for Sherlock. If I owned Sherlock, then Johnlock would have been canon. Notting Hill is not mine, too.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting.

“Daddy, can we watch that?” Hamish pointed at the poster of Star Trek: Into Darkness on the newspaper that John was holding. Oddly enough, John had been staring at it even before Hamish had pointed it out. The poster was a good shot. It didn’t have that nasty “overly photoshopped” look. It was natural, and it conveyed much about the story. The falling debris, the chaos, and the man walking away were all so brilliantly styled.

 

“If you’re good, then maybe we can watch it next weekend, yeah?” He said and winked at his son. Hamish smiled at him and ran off to the front door to tend to the new customer.

 

 _Well, this is my life now_ , John thought to himself. He would never have thought of having a book shop in Hammersmith when he was in his early twenties. He dreamed of having a nice, sweet wife and a playful little kid in a small but dainty house in London. They’d have this dog named Gladstone and he’d sigh in happiness as he sat on their lawn. However, it was clear that things weren’t going to go as planned for John. He became an army doctor, and was sent back after receiving a rather horrid shot to the shoulder. He spent ten months moping around Havering, trying to survive the high living costs when he met Mary Morstan. They fell in love, got married, and had Hamish.

 

 But, shortly after Hamish’s third birthday, Mary felt distant. John had to initiate the dates, the celebrations, and even the sex –which had gone awry- that it already felt unfair. One day, when John had gone out to buy Hamish some milk, he saw Mary with her boss, Alex Parker. Their hands were intertwined, and it looked like they were really having a good time. However, the most crushing part about that was seeing Mary smile like how she used to smile for John. That smile reminded John of sunflowers. So, when John got home, he confronted Mary about it and she never denied it. Her explanations were laced with _I’m really sorry, John_ s and _I didn’t want to hurt you_ s. In the end, they resorted to having a divorce and wallowing in guilt for being the reason of Hamish’s depression.

 

After the heartbreak, John decided to become domestic once and for all: he got all of his remaining money, moved to Hammersmith, and built a book shop. Hammersmith was a nice place; it was smaller than Havering, but he enjoyed the busybody-ness of people there. It felt more like the modern London. Hamish could get used to that kind of environment. John built a book shop that looked much like a library. It had a homey feeling, and the shelves were big enough to hide away from the prying eyes of the public. He also allowed food in the readers’ area (a corner of the store which had wooden floors so that he wouldn’t have to strain his limp from tedious cleaning) and played marvelous music that did not obstruct the customers’ reading pleasure. Despite these enticing elements, he had a hard time in selling his books. Most of them were just read, and not bought. Students and teachers often just picked up a book and took notes. Harry had often opposed to John’s complacency to it, but he would always defend himself, saying that he could not take the right of the people to know what they have to know. In the end, John had enough money to supply for their needs, but not enough to give Hamish what he wanted most of the time. John also had to sell most of his things to afford the living expenses.

 

So, here he was, relaxing to what soon will be a warm day in Hammersmith whilst the people there buzzed about. Wednesdays were particularly slow for The Hammersmith Books, so he didn’t anticipate much. The only thing that was exciting on that day was taking Hamish to the daycare centre. He loved seeing Hamish opening up to other people. It had already been three years since the divorce, so it was about time for Hamish to move on. Of course, John had supported him all throughout the years, coaxing him to open up. Seeing his son in the school told him that he was, if not fully successful, a bit successful in doing that. He had friends, and he was often complimented by his teachers for having a tremendous amount of curiosity and charm. That was enough for John. Heck, it was _more_ than enough.

 

“But, space fiction is the best, mister! It’s cool! And, daddy agrees with me!” John snapped out of his thoughts as he heard a relentless Hamish arguing with someone. Probably the new customer. He sighed. Trust Hamish to get into arguments early in the morning. He grabbed his cane, and carefully stood himself up. He headed towards where Hamish’s voice was coming from.

 

“Hamish, what are you—“ He stopped, briefly shocked by what he saw. Hamish was facing a very familiar man. He had pale smooth skin that fans of Cosmopolitan envied, reddish cupid’s bow lips that saved a place for him in the list of 100 _Sexiest Men of All Time_ , eyes that had a cross between blue and green shade, and a height that the Tottenham Hotspurs were sporting. He was wearing a purple button-up and slacks that framed his body gloriously. And, at that moment, John Watson could not believe his eyes.

 

Sherlock Holmes was in his store. Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes, the man who stole a BAFTA right after his first movie, the young yet legendary movie star who took Hollywood by storm. A _fucking_ movie star was inside his store _right now_!

 

And, acting as if his presence wasn’t enough to startle John, Sherlock Holmes studied the man in front of him. After having his fill, he turned back to the open book he was holding whilst asking John a question. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

“Afghanistan.” He answered firmly, and then realized that no one should have known that, not even movie stars who happen to stumble upon his humble little shop. “Wait, what?”

 

Sherlock Holmes gave him a smug grin. “Your gunshot wound. You’ve been rubbing it since you saw me. The new information made you distressed.”

 

“How…?” John was speechless. Magnificent as he is, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t supposed to know these things about someone as plain and normal as John. Heck, he wasn’t even part of the celebrity circle in which the other man was in. There were only two hypotheses that were probable at the moment: it was either Sherlock Holmes was a nasty stalker of his, or he was a mind reader. Both were preposterous, but the latter was more believable. With the power and glory that he had, he wouldn’t even be taking second glances at people like John.

 

Sherlock Holmes chuckled at the sight of John. He turned back to Hamish, and leaned a bit closer to him.  “Looks like you shouldn’t believe too much of what your dad says, boy. He thinks I’m a mind reader, which isn’t really a good guess as to why I know he got shot.”

 

Oh god. He really was a mind reader.

 

“No, I am not a mind reader. Everything is much too obvious with your expressions. Hasn’t anyone told you how expressive you are?” He rolled his eyes at the ridiculous-looking John. “As for your gunshot wound, your stance gave away everything. You have a cane, yet you stand firmly, and what sector can train such men who can stand like that for prolonged sessions? So, the army it is. Judging by the way you look, you are only in your early thirties. This kid here,” –he pointed to Hamish-“seems to be five. Still a bit short to be six, but a bit more developed than the average four-year-old. With that point taken, he must’ve been born about a year after you got invalidated. Clearly, you did not have a fiancée waiting for you when you came back. So, you got invalided when you were around 26 or 27. You are still a bit awkward with life here in Hammersmith, so you must have been living far away from here. East London, if I must say, for West London is a bit more modern in the atmosphere. You love the thrill of things buzzing about here and there, so you moved here. You have a profound love for books, so here you are. A bookshop owner. Not much money earned, but it keeps you and your son alive. By the way, your leg problem is only a psychosomatic limp, so it is quite easy to heal if you put your mind to it.”

 

John could only stand there, agape because of what he had just said. This man –no. Sherlock Holmes stood in front of him, chatting away his _biography_ nonchalantly. And, the most surprising thing is that he got those things by only staring at him. That was..

 

“Brilliant,” he finally breathed out, even if he was still in a state of shock. “That was very, very brilliant. It was amazing.”

 

The lanky man ran a hand through his curls, a bit of red appearing on his cheeks. Oh god, he was _embarrassed_. He didn’t expect movie stars to have vulnerable expressions like that. Well, they were human, too, so that wasn’t really a good theory. “Did I get everything right?”

 

“Yeah, spot on,” John said as he nodded. “I got invalided when I was 27. Everything else was correct. But, uh, Hamish is actually six. It’s just, you know, the genes.” John gestured to his height as he let out a small chuckle from his throat.

 

Sherlock Holmes groaned. “Six! There was always something.” He turned once again to John and held out his hand to him. “Sherlock Holmes, although I think you probably knew that, what with your silly little movie star theories.”

 

John shook his hand in response. He felt a little tingly because the other man’s hand was clearly softer than an average man of his age. “John Watson, Mister Holmes. And, this boy here is Hamish Watson.” Hamish gave him a wide grin as he stared at the interesting being in front of him.

 

“Sherlock, please.” He put a hand in his pocket, and took his wallet out. He pulled out ten pounds from it, and gave it to John. “Now, John, I must go now because of urgent matters. I’ll be taking this book that Hamish suggested to me.” He gave Hamish a small smile. He stooped down to face Hamish on an eye-to-eye level. “I will be coming back to hear more of your suggestions and arguments about space fiction, Mister Hamish Watson, master of space trades and documentation.” He ruffled the boy’s hair and stood up. He gave John one last nod, and exited The Hammersmith Books with an air of confidence and enigma.

 

John was still staring at the door, perhaps still a bit dazed at what happened that day when he felt a tug on his jumper. He looked at his son, who, in turn, gave him a proud look.

 

“Daddy. That was the guy in the poster in the newspaper.”

 

“I know, Hamish. I know.” But, John doesn’t, really. He doesn’t know what to make of the current events. His mind was still not accepting the information that Sherlock Holmes was just here, standing on the same ground as he, and in close proximity.  He couldn’t believe that Sherlock Holmes was as brilliant as he was onscreen, even though he did not do all those observations when he was in movies.

 

The man was more than he seemed to be, and John was attracted to that. He just had to find out _more_.

 


	2. The rift, or the bridge?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So, before anything else, I would like to give everyone a HUGE apology for not updating in months. Real life ate so much of my time. I had to rigorously train for contests that I was to compete in this year, and there were also my college entrance exams along the way. And, of course, the usual academic work is still in the way. But, I got hyped up for the past few days and decided to type up FINALLY another chapter of this fic. 
> 
> A few explanations:  
> 1.) I had put the central location of the fic in Hammersmith, because according to some internet sources, Benedict was born there. This chapter has a tidbit that explains why Sherlock was in Hammersmith, and I just wanted to put a bit of reality into this story.
> 
> 2.) I realized that some (or most) of the things in this chapter is already not in line with how the situations really are in the movie. I wanted to follow the movie's storyline, but I still wanted John and Sherlock's personality to pour into it. So, the main skeleton of this fanfic is the Notting Hill movie, but I won't guarantee that all scenes will be played out exactly as it is in the movie.
> 
> 3.) If, in the future, you do not find Sherlock's love for his job unsatisfying, I am really sorry for disappointing you. But, I think that is how Anna Scott really viewed her job: as something that will only last for the moment, something that seems so unreal. I think she didn't really think of her job as satisfying as well. I am really sorry, but I am just staying true to that bit of her character.
> 
> And, finally, enjoy once again this chapter. :) If you want to clear up anything, please, never be shy to ask in the comments section. Thank you very much for your support.

John knelt beside his son and put a newly bought red cap on his head. Hamish looked at the foreign object shielding his face from the sun for a few moments, before giving his dad a grin. Somewhere in that boyish gaze and confident beam, John knew that Hamish was saying ‘thank you’, although he was not expressing it out loud. John returned the grin affectionately as he stood up. “What time should you be home?”

 

“Half past five!” The little boy exclaimed delightfully.

 

“Alright. Run along now,” He said as he patted his head. Hamish took one last look at his father, and ran into his school.

 

John felt like he had become a ‘real’ father, seeing his son be happy like that after quite some time.

 

He turned his back to Hamish’s school, and walked towards his favorite coffee shop near the corner of the street. The smell of coffee and sweet bread wafted towards his nose as he entered the shop. His common weekday would never be complete without this certain smell.

 

“Black coffee, one sugar please,” he said, looking at the ‘Hi, I’m the Manager!’ name tag on the cashier man’s brown shirt. John grimaced inwardly as he realized that Tony was no longer the manager of that coffee shop. Tony was a good friend of his, but he cannot deny the fact that he was shite at this kind of thing. John took hurrying up some bookstore issues into consideration for he might get called by Tony to listen to his unfortunate news.

 

The manager handed him his warm cup of coffee and bid him a polite goodbye. Just as he turned towards the door, he smacked head on to a rather large man. His drink spilled onto his hand, the stranger’s clothes, and the floor.

 

“Oh, for bloody fuck’s sake! Watch where you’re going, you imbecile!” John cringed at the sound of a deep, velvety voice cursing. Without looking at the owner of the voice, he automatically reached for his handkerchief in his pocket and started to dab it to the stranger’s clothes.

 

“I’m really sorry. Just.. wait, here, let me- “ He stopped as he stared into the angry blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes, the star whom he met just a few hours ago. He froze in his spot, a bit too starstruck to believe that he had met, once again, one of the biggest stars in Hollywood. Who knew coincidence could be repeated?

 

There was a shift in the other’s expression. “You’ve got a Sig,” Sherlock, clearly more interested in John’s hidden weapon inside his back pocket (and was covered by his jumper) now, lowered his head so that he was whispering directly into John’s ear. “You’ll make excuses as to why you are carrying such illegal weaponry, but I know the truth. You think the thrill of not knowing whether there’s danger today or tomorrow is exciting. John Watson, the normality of life has not dulled your inner Captain. You miss the war and the danger that entails it.”

 

John tensed, scared of the possibility of him being reported carrying an illegal weapon. However, this feeling was overcome by his curiosity to know why Sherlock Holmes found his hidden Sig and thirst for danger interesting.

 

As if reading John’s mind, Sherlock smirked. “I don’t suppose you’re averse to the idea of accompanying me to face danger?”

 

 

 

“Bring it on.” John breathed out, seemingly unaware that he had uttered the words. Sherlock gave him a small smile before heading out of the small coffee shop. John knew he was bound to follow.

 

* * *

 

“When you said ‘danger’, I was expecting something more exciting.” John remarked, blowing the dull green leaf away from his shoulder. They were now situated in a bush with lots of stems (one of them was poking at his balls, for god’s sake!), hiding away from the cops that were surrounding the crime scene. Sherlock said they had to wait until they had their lunch break so that they could snoop in. However, this was taking a long time. John was itching to pounce on some great big guy.

 

“Shut up. You’re disturbing my thought process.” Sherlock said, irritated as he held a hand up to him. John wondered how he could sit so still in a space so cramped up and filled with hairy insects. Maybe celebrities had that sort of training where they will desensitize you for your role. That would be so extreme.

 

“For the record, actors such as I are always treated with only the best. We are pampered. Your delusions of me acting so desensitized with peculiar environments are utterly ridiculous that I had to call out my opinion.”

 

John was stunned. “I didn’t say anything.”

 

“Oh, for god’s sake! Your face is an open book!” Frustrated, Sherlock wove his fingers into his unruly curls and pulled at them. “Now, could you please keep quiet for a bit? I need to think.”

 

He decided to keep still for a moment. His eyes scanned over the deranged scene filled with police officers. There was a body at the center of the set-up. It was a bit too small, like a child’s, but the bloated stomach suggested otherwise. It was of a small pregnant woman’s. This realization hit John with a wave of sadness and silent respect. She had a child. She didn’t deserve this.

 

Sherlock stood up with a grim smile on his face. He looked a bit ridiculous with that proud expression on his face, seeing that his white button-up still has that taint of coffee on it. He reached into his pockets, pulled out his sunglasses, and strode into the crime scene. John, who clearly didn’t know what he was supposed to do, followed after him. He was surprised to see him stooping down to the level of the victim and nudging the body in different places. The actor was behaving like a lion, studying its prey while it was still fresh.

 

“Oi! What are you doing there!” They both flinched at the loud voice behind them. Sherlock got up, slumped his shoulders, huddled up his arms on his chest, and sobbed a bit. Oh god, the man was acting.

 

“Y-yes, sir?” Sherlock’s voice was soft and filled with sadness as he spoke. The officer eyed them up before speaking once again.

 

“What business do you have here?”

 

“We heard what happened to her, so we rushed here. We were her neighbors.” Sherlock inserted his forefinger in his sunglasses so that it appeared as if he was wiping a tear. “She was so happy to have a kid, and then this..” He crouched over to put his head on John’s shoulder. John put a hand on his back and rubbed soothingly, though a bit awkward. To his shock, Sherlock pulled another tactic: he laced his fingers with John’s other hand.

 

“I suggest you get out of here before the others spot you. You might be arrested for crime scene contamination. I am already doing you a favor.” The police officer said calmly. It was obvious that he was used to these kind of lunatic relatives trying to disturb the crime scene.

 

“I-I’m sorry, officer. My husband and I are just trying to pay our respects.”

 

“Do that when the funeral is held.”

 

“Thank you, officer.” John found himself responding. He ushered Sherlock to the street they were on and into the nearest corner. Sherlock shrugged off John’s arms and straightened his clothes.

 

“Oh, that was tedious.”

 

“Never knew Sherlock Holmes, adored by thousands, loved manipulating the protectors of the law.”

 

Sherlock smirked. “I do it all the time, John. It is The Work. Don’t be daft. Now, come along.  We’ve got ourselves a criminal to catch.”

 

“Wait.” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “How’d you know who it was?”

 

“Simple.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Look at how her large wound was made. That could only be made by a knife, but not just any knife. The knife had limited capabilities to kill a person quickly, so it had to be lodged in very well.  There were signs of tetanus all over, meaning that the knife in question was an old one. I know those edges; they could only be made by trench knives. Somewhere between the years 1942 and 1943, Mark I trench knives were issued to the U.S. Marines. There were signs of tetanus poisoning all over the body, too, further proving that the knife was, indeed, an old but effective one. And, because of my expansive knowledge about the oldest residents here due to Hammersmith being my hometown, there can only be one suspect here: Mr. Charles Fitzgerald. Now, as to why he killed her...” He paused dramatically. "Fitzgerald had never been happy with his wife. He realized this ten years after their marriage. From that time on, he kept a string of lovers in tow, and his wife never knew. He was a fairly rich man, so a lot of women get attracted to him, even this lady. However, she was the mistake. He got her pregnant. She begged and begged him to help her with her pregnancy, but he refused. Finally, when she had the last straw, she sought out to tell his wife of their affair. But, before she could tell her, he killed her first."

 

“Brilliant!” John cried out, a bit too excited. “You worked that out because of the wound?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said proudly.

 

“That was amazing,” John continued. “Don’t you think you’ve got the wrong career?”

 

 

 

“Sometimes, I do think of that.” Sherlock acknowledged. His eyes changed back to the same predatory eyes John saw earlier, and if it weren’t for his clothes, John would’ve guessed Sherlock was some kind of animal ready to pounce on his dinner. “Come along, John.”

 

* * *

 

John had just made a man unconscious with his gun. And, it made Sherlock _laugh_. They were giggling like high school girls as they managed to pull the body of the unconscious Mr. Fitzgerald to the nearby police station. Luckily, Mr. Fitzgerald’s house was close to the local police station. When they got to the front of the station, they had to be very discreet because they couldn’t risk detection. Grabbing a pair of handcuffs that John couldn’t quite point out how he got, Sherlock cuffed Mr. Fitzgerald to the light post. He got his mobile and texted quickly.

 

"The police have been notified anonymously. All we've got to do is head home now." He whisked away from the scene.

 

John caught up to him. “That was bloody crazy!” He said, chuckling and shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe they just chained a criminal in front of the police station’s porch.

 

Sherlock flashed him a large grin. “It’s going to get crazier.”

 

John was happy. Sherlock guaranteed that they were to meet again in the future. He got to stand beside this brilliant man, and got to enjoy his company. The fact that he was a world famous actor was only an icing to the cake. Without it, John was sure he would still continue to see how luminous Sherlock was, shining so brightly in that certain expanse in his life. Slowly, he was finding out the greatness of the real man beneath the reputations he built up.

 

In the light of their emotional high, John leaned a bit closer to Sherlock as they walked. He found it strangely comforting. Sherlock didn’t flinch, which was a good sign.

 

“You used to live here?”

 

“Yes,” The taller man said nonchalantly. “My childhood home. I’m actually on a two-week vacation from work because it’s my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary in two weeks. My brother thought it would be especially touching if we could all ‘be so abnormally mundane and spend time together’.” He rolled his eyes. “Tedious.”

 

“Don’t have an inkling for family, then?” John smiled.

 

“Not really, no. Especially when you’ve got someone fat and tedious for a brother.  He’s always an overbearing presence in my life.”

 

“I can’t imagine he’s all that bad.”

 

“Wait until you meet him. By now, he would’ve been alerted of your presence.” Sherlock stopped abruptly. “We’re here.” He announced. John turned to look at his surroundings, and realized he was already home.

 

“Yeah. Thanks for inviting me out on.. whatever that was we did.” This put a smile on Sherlock’s face. “It was great, really.”

 

A pregnant awkward silence filled the air. Sherlock did not seem to want to go, and John did not seem to want to go inside. In truth, John didn’t really want Sherlock to go. He wanted him to go inside his house, and stay up all night just talking about the random bits of their life.

 

“Would you like to come in?” John could already feel his tongue burning at his poor attempt to invite the gorgeous man inside. “There’s Darjeeling tea inside.”

 

Sherlock smiled as he took a step closer to him. John took a step back. “No.”

 

“Orange juice?”

 

Another step. “No.”

 

“I’ve got apple pie and custard. Do you want some of them? Although, it’s kind of ridiculous because the custard isn’t like a plus factor at all. The custard is all over the place. Instead of ‘apple pie and custard’, they should have just named it ‘apple pie drowning in custard’. The one I’ve got had too much custard in it so I hope you don’t mi-“

 

“No.” John was pinned to the door now, with Sherlock hovering over him. The actor’s hands were on both sides of John’s face. Giving a slightly amused grin, Sherlock crushed his lips onto John’s slowly. John melted into the kiss. It was glorious, being kissed by those lips. Sherlock’s lips were soft, but the way he kissed him was sharp and full of adrenaline. Just when John was about to respond, the other had quickly pulled away. They were panting at the heat of their kiss. Thank god they were in a less busy street, or else he would be caught up in a scandal and things wouldn't be so good.

 

“That was.. surreal, but nice.” John unconsciously remarked in a breathy voice. A few seconds later, he realized what he said. He blushed tremendously, but Sherlock only chuckled.

 

“It’s best if I get going.” The other man pulled on the lapels of his coat.

 

“Yes. Thank you for.. today.” John managed. “Oh, and sorry for the ‘surreal, but nice’ comment.”

 

“Don’t worry. I think the whole thing about the apple pie and custard was the low point.” They both laughed.

 

They were interrupted by the door behind John opening. There, standing with a closed book shop behind him, was Hamish.

 

“Daddy?”

 

“Oh, Hamish,” John turned his attention to his son and knelt down. “Have you been waiting for me?”

 

“Yes. I heard your voice, Daddy.” the younger replied. He was rubbing at his eyes. He might have been doing his homework when he heard them. “Sold the cap you gave me this morning to buy some food for us. I’ve left your share in the fridge.”

 

John’s heart clenched. Of course, the excitement of being with Sherlock was only momentarily. He was, of course, still a father to his child. He felt guilty having left Hamish to his own devices. And, he felt bad that he had to even sell his well-earned cap in order to feed the two of them. He didn’t have to resort to that. He didn’t want Hamish to ever experience having to resort to that kind of thing.

 

As if feeling John’s internal torment, Sherlock stood beside him and crouched down to look at Hamish. “Hamish?”

 

Hamish’s eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock. “Hello, Mr. Sherlock.”

 

“Good evening. Could you tell me the color of your cap?”

 

“Oh,” Hamish smiled. “It was this red cap with something written on it, like bold letters. I think it was an e, an a, a g, an l, and an e. It fit my head!”

 

“I’m going to get the same hat for you tomorrow. Is that alright?” When he saw Hamish nodding, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. “Listen. Your dad here doesn’t want you to do that again because he wants you to be happy with what he provides for you.”

 

“Did I do something wrong?”

 

“No, you didn’t. But, your father buys you all of these things because he loves you very much. He wants to protect you. He’s happy that you’re thinking of him, but he very much wants you to have the best that you can have. So, next time, call Dad when you need dinner, alright?”

 

“Okay!” The little boy said eagerly.

 

Sherlock stood up from his position. John, seemingly snapping out of his emotional trance, stood up, too.

 

“You don’t have to buy him another one,” John said. “I’ll get him another one myself.”

 

“It’s partly my fault he had to do that.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Besides, what he did was remarkably thoughtful. He deserved another one.”

 

“But-“

 

“No more, John.” The actor turned away from him. “I’ll let it be delivered here tomorrow. I’ve really got to get going.”

 

“Thank you,” John started. “For everything today. I still have to replace your shirt, though.”

 

“Though it is a favorite, I would have to make do with my other shirts. It is quite alright, actually. And, the feeling’s mutual.” Sherlock turned for a fraction of a second before going on his way.

 

John turned his back to the view of Sherlock leaving, and ushered Hamish inside the book shop. He stooped down to gently carry him in his arms as he locked the doors and took his son to their bedroom.

 

Being with Sherlock was exciting. John was discovering that Sherlock (oh, that selfish bastard) was starting to build an igloo inside his life and was stubbornly insisting on staying there. But, John always had to remember that he had duties as a father, too. What if, just maybe, these two parts of his life clashed? He’s pretty sure Hamish would enjoy being with Sherlock, and vice versa. Maybe they’d get to spend time with each other someday.

 

Oh god. What was _he_ thinking? After merely just a few hours of meeting, was he seriously considering this arrangement with Sherlock as a permanent juncture?

 

 _Stupid_. The man was an actor. He only had two weeks here. And, what would happen when he leaves? John would be left in pieces, trying to fix after a life-wrecking event. He would further burden Hamish with his own self delusions.

 

This was frustrating. In an attempt to drive all of these thoughts away, he turned to Hamish, who was now sitting on the bed with all of his books open, and sat beside him to help him with his homework.

 

 


	3. Just to see you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Using Ben's movies as Sherlock's movies. god knows I'm not creative enough D:. I feel like I've just copied and pasted everything here. I am totally sorry for this poor excuse of an update. But, I had to get it out there so that I can get a move on with the story. I'll make it up to you in the next chapter. Oh, and PARENTS!

            “We need a pint.”

 

            “You know I can’t.”

 

            “I know. I’ll just have a sloppy sleepover with you and Hame, then.”

 

            John looked incredulously at the silver-haired man in front of him. This man was Gregory Lestrade, a local police constable aiming for Detective Inspector someday. Unluckily for him, he was assigned to traffic enforcement. Well, at least he was doing what he wanted this time.  His father’s dying wish was for him to take over the family business. He ended up letting his sister have it because it nearly went bankrupt. Greg knew he wasn’t cut to be in business.

 

            “Seriously,” he sarcastically said, cleaning the countertop with a flannel. “A sleepover.”

 

He grinned lazily. “Yes, a sleepover where we have that funny yellow juice, some Sherlock Holmes movies and a sleeping toddler in your room.”

 

The name suddenly caught his attention. “You watch his films?”

 

Greg just shrugged. “Yeah, he’s a cool bloke. He has a nice arse. My sister is obsessed with him.” Gregory was bisexual, and he wasn't afraid to show it.

 

John absentmindedly rubbed a spot on the countertop with his finger. Right. Sherlock Holmes was still a famous actor, and that kiss they had a week ago might just have been one of those insignificant kisses he gave out. He was used to expertly kissing people. Heck, he might’ve been one of his practice subjects. But, there was some hope inside of him that it wasn’t just a one-off or a practice. It felt like something more. Sherlock gave him a whole new world to explore with him, and John would give anything (well, except Hamish) to continue having that. “Well, I suppose. Just.. keep the bottle out of his sight. Come over by ten, I’ll be ready then.”

 

Satisfied, Greg smirked at him and told him to bring out his Winnie the Pooh pajamas as he walked away.

 

Well, if he wasn’t going to see Sherlock in person again, then he might as well settle with the screen version.

* * *

 

_“So I raise a morphine toast to you. And, should you happen to remember that it's the anniversary of my birth, remember that you were loved by me and you made my life a happy one. And there's no tragedy in that.” Sherlock’s voice echoed through the screen that showed nothing but the stars splayed all across it. It wasn’t twinkling, but that was okay. It was how James, Sherlock’s character, felt when he died. Peaceful. In control. His death was sad, because the poison his body couldn’t fight gave him pain and uselessness. But, he was a star, he was away, he was finally what he loved and where he loved. He was the third star to the right, which led to Neverland._

 

Greg was grossly sobbing.

 

John was teary-eyed.

 

Hamish was sleeping in the bedroom.

 

The acting prowess Sherlock exhibited in his early movie, Third Star, was intense. It was hard to play someone with cancer, let alone someone who wanted to die. He looked so innocent, vulnerable yet strong. He was perfect. When Sherlock acted as James, he didn’t see Sherlock and all his neurotic glory. He saw James, someone who had cancer, someone who was comfortable with the idea of death, and someone who appreciated those close to his heart. He became a man who acknowledged that he was about to die. Dear god, one movie and he already was a sucker for this man. Maybe even before watching _Third Star_.

 

At some point, Greg stopped sobbing. But, he did have snot running down from his nostrils. “Good Lord,” he wiped his eyes, then his nose, with his sleeve. That has got to be gross. “That bloke is an excellent actor. He made me bloody cry my eyes out!” He blew his nose on his sleeve. John, out of pity, gave him a box of tissues. “He still has a nice arse. Did you look at the way his pants clung to his arse when he was lifted off of the sea? Gorgeous, that.”

 

John got up, stretched, and yawned. “That’s enough movies, I think. You’ve a morning shift tomorrow.”

 

“Bloody fucking shift. It’s good I love the fucking concept of the job.” Greg took off the jacket he was wearing, and dropped it on the couch. “Thanks for letting me borrow your jacket, by the way.”

 

Oh, shit. When did he let him borrow his jacket again? Was it at the beginning of the movie? Well, that was great. He had a jacket full of snot from his best friend.

 

Greg said his goodbyes, took the large bottle of beer with him, and set on his way home. John decided to clean up the mess they made. He rearranged the magazines on the table, the couch, and finally, his jacket. God. John felt gross from just touching it.

 

That was when a folded paper fluttered out of his jacket pocket. Well, when did he put a piece of paper in his jacket? He usually put it inside his wallet. He bent down, picked it up, and opened it.

 

 

 

_John,_

_I cannot give out my personal number, as per request of my manager. However, I’m staying at 42 Colet Gardens, if you would like to meet again to talk. I trust that you do not share this information with anyone as my parents’ privacy and life are at stake. You continually surprise me, John Watson, and I think I cannot get enough of that._

_Sherlock_

 

 

So, that was why he mustn't have contacted him for a week. He didn’t see this seemingly insignificant paper with the man’s details on it. He shook his head. Did this note give him the right to hope that what they have is something special?

 

Well, that was what John was about to find out tomorrow.

* * *

 

John arrived at eleven. Hamish was in school, and he had begged Georgie, their old book-loving neighbor, to watch over the shop in exchange of two free books today. He had expected the house to look more like a mansion, but it was just a simple home with bright yellow bricks, rose bushes that looked well taken care of, a grey pathway and white picket fences covering the whole lot. He walked across the lawn to reach the door. He pressed the doorbell lightly, then a little bit harder the second time just in case no one heard it the first time. There were muffled voices from the other side of the door.

 

The door opened, finally, and revealed an old man with a checkered blue and white button-up and a warm brown cardigan. He had a bit of a fringe curled and swept back. He was of an average frame, except for his humongous height. He must have been at least five inches taller than he was. He also had high and prominent cheekbones and a quite long face.

 

 “Hello,” the man greeted heartily. “Can I help you?”

 

John gulped his nervousness away. “Uh, I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes. Is he here?”

 

The man’s eyes instantly switched from warm to ice cold. It was terrifying. He looked like a harmless body pillow that could kill you at midnight. “Well, we’re the Carltons, you see, son. There’s no Holmes in this house.”

 

John’s face fell slightly. He was pretty sure this was 42 Colet Gardens. He was also pretty sure that this man was Sherlock’s father, going by the cheekbones, the height, and the face. He got the note from his pocket, checked the address, and frowned a bit. “Is this house 42 Colet Gardens?”

 

The man looked skeptically at the note. “If you may,” He tugged at the tip of the note to ask for permission, which John gave without hesitation. John watched as he read the note, and saw as he curiously smiled. He looked at John, and turned back. “Violet, there’s someone at the door.”

 

“Wait!” There was a cry from somewhere deeper in the house, perhaps the kitchen. Moments later, a woman with an apron came beside the man. She had a bob cut which curled around her face. Her eyes were blue-green, and there were hints of wrinkling on her forehead. But, she glowed healthily, like her age could not hide her inert beauty. She gave John a smile and a curious glance, before turning to the man and looking at the note he was holding. She skimmed her eyes over the words on the note. Then, she looked up to the man and smirked (John didn’t know old people could do that).

 

“Sorry for that, dear. Mycroft and Sherlock’s insistent in keeping us and this home safe from the media or any fans at that.” The woman spoke and held out her hand. “Violet Holmes. This is my husband, Timothy. I see Sherlock’s seen through your boring exterior.”

 

If John hadn’t paid any attention to what she was saying, he could have missed those words. Her tone was practically booming with friendliness and warmth when she spoke. He looked at her and shook her hand, wide-eyed and confused. “Yes?”

 

She winked at him. “He’s my son, after all. Your name?”

 

“John. John Watson,” he was too starstruck at how this two could be Sherlock’s parents. “Pleasure to meet you.”

 

“Now, John, I’m afraid Sherlock really isn’t here. He went out a couple of hours ago.” She smiled apologetically at him. Timothy turned his back and went off somewhere John couldn’t see. He went back a little later with the note still in his hand. He gave it back to John. John looked at the note, where the top was now decorated with digits.

 

“Mycroft wouldn’t mind.” The man said.

 

John put the note back in his pocket. “T-Then, I’ll be off now. Thank you, Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Violet and Timothy is fine. Goodbye, John.” Violet said as she waved her hand in goodbye. The door shut closed afterward.

 

John walked towards the nearest telephone booth he could find. He didn’t have a cellular to call Sherlock with anyway. He slid in a few coins, and pressed the buttons. He grew nervous. The continuous ringing only added to his nerves. When a rich, velvety voice answered the call, John felt like exploding.

 

God. He felt like a teenage boy calling someone he fancied.

 

“This is John,” He breathed out.

 

“Right.” Sherlock answered sternly. “Good of you to call. _After a week_.”

 

“I’m sorry. I’ve only found the note yesterday.”

 

There was a terrible loud noise in background before Sherlock answered. “Euro Hotel, at four. I’ll see you then.”

 

The line went dead.

 

John put back the phone, and chuckled to himself. He had a fucking date! Or, if that ever was a date. Well, he had better get the man something. What did he like? Maybe John could go for something normal for this.

 

* * *

 

John was at a loss on what was happening.

 

When the suite door opened for him, a magazine with Sherlock’s back plastered on the cover was thrust into his hands. ‘Star Trek Into Darkness’ was written on bold and fat letters beside his alluring back. The man behind him proceeded to push him further into the room, where other men with nice coats and IDs laced on their necks were lounging around, some with coffee cups in their hands. There were also flashes of cameras blinding each side of the room. The woman who had given him the magazine got a clipboard from who knows where, and started asking him and the man behind him questions.

 

“So, what are your reviews on the new movie?”

 

“The concept of sci-fi in the old movies mesh well in its new version due to the superb visuals,” the man behind him supplied.

 

“And, yours?”

 

John didn’t know what to answer, so he just smiled and said he agreed.

 

Then, she asked the ultimate terror question. “What magazine are you from?”

 

“Company.”

 

“And, you, sir?”

 

John’s eyes wandered in panic. It landed on one of the magazines splayed on the tiny coffee table at the side. “Farmers Weekly.”

 

The woman stared at him, amused. “Anything else, sir?”

 

“Please tell him John Watson is here to see him.”

 

“To whom should I say this?”

 

“Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“I’ll check.” She zoomed off to the other part of the room. The man behind him sat himself comfortable on one of the empty seats by the window. Guessing he had no choice, John sat beside the man.

 

“Nice. You got him flowers.”

 

John looked surprised when the man talked to him. “Well, yes. I.. I was hoping I could entice him to work on.. farm-related films in the future. Like… Brokeback Mountain.”

 

“Sure.” He didn’t look like he believed John. “Nasty trick.”

 

“Yeah,” he said absentmindedly. The woman from before got back and told him he was expected. Then, he was ushered to another room. This room looked more royal than the one he was in; it had a soft peach couch and red velvet walls. The floor was coated with dull gold carpeting. And, by the window, was the man himself.

 

Sherlock turned around as he entered the room. “John,” he acknowledged.

 

John awkwardly stepped into the room. “Hi,” he managed. “I’ve brought you flowers, but-“

 

“Yes, just put them on the table.” Sherlock left the window and went towards John. He looked handsome as usual. His suit looked like it was tailored to fit him in all the right places. He sat down on the couch and leaned on the arm rest.

 

John settled himself on the other couch beside Sherlock’s. “I’m really sorry about the week’s wait. I haven’t really paid attention to my jacket. I’ve gone to your house, but your parents told me you weren’t there. They’ve given me your number, by the way.”

 

Sherlock smirked bemusedly. “I didn’t wait for you, John.”

 

He didn’t let his awkward smile fall from his face. “Right.”

 

Someone entered the door. It was a man, a bit taller than Sherlock. He had his hair wiped away from his face, although a bit or two of wavy locks managed to escape the grasps of the menacing gel he used. He was fit into a cream-colored suit, with a small stack of papers on his right hand.

 

“Everything alright, Sherlock?” He said as he raised a brow, voice booming.

 

Sherlock glared at him. “Yes, Mycroft.”

 

 _Mycroft_. He heard that name from Mr. Holmes earlier. So, this was Sherlock’s manager. The man gave him an elevator glance, and then turned his attention to the papers on his hand. “And, you’re from.. Farmers Weekly?”

 

He could feel the questioning stare from Sherlock. A side of his lip was lifted. He was finding this amusing. John could only nod in agreement.

 

Mycroft turned his back against them and started making coffee. There was a coffee maker at the corner of the room, almost next to the door.

 

“Well then.” Sherlock was grinning at him slyly. He plopped himself on the sofa and crossed his arms. His eyes were practically ridiculing John. He was daring him to go on with his façade. “ _Shoot_.”

 

He had no other choice. “The film was very pleasant and...” he remembered what the man behind him said. “visually superb. I was wondering whether.. you ever thought of entering a bit of, uh.. farming in it.”

 

Mycroft snorted from the corner.

 

“We would have liked to enter farming in it,” Sherlock said smoothly. “But, it would have been difficult, considering this movie focuses mainly on _Khan_ and the captain’s ploy for _space warfare_.”

 

“Oh, yes.” John didn’t read the novels, nor did he have enough money and time to spend on watching the Star Trek movies. “Difficult.”

 

Mycroft took his cup with him and exited the room.

 

John suddenly launched into explanation. “Oh, god, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do when they opened the door and thrust this magazine into my hand.” To stress the point, he raised the magazine.

 

“No, it’s fine, John. The press interview had gone late.” He checked his wrist watch. “Look, John. I just wanted to apologize for kissing you. That was a rare thing for me to do. I didn’t know what came over me,” He looked vulnerable. It was clear it was hard for Sherlock to admit he acted out of instinct and lack of judgment. “I invited you here to make sure you were alright with it.”

 

John’s shoulders unconsciously slumped. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

 

That was when Mycroft went back into the room with a bottle in his hand and the papers in the other. “Mr. Holmes would also want to talk about his latest project, which he will be shooting over the summer.” He left the bottle on the table, and proceeded to slash away something on the papers he was holding beside the coffee maker.

 

“So, any farming on that one? Or, any famous crops? Our readers do like reading about produce.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, closed it to grin, then opened it again. All John could focus on was his lips. Cupid’s bow lips. Luscious lips. Lips which would fit perfectly with John’s. _Oh, shut it, brain_. “It’s about zombies. I’m not sure your readers would like to read about human arms as carrot substitutes and planted brains.”

 

“O-oh,” John was flustered at this point. Mycroft sighed at his ridiculousness and went out of the room.

 

“Look, this is all just.. fictional and ridiculous and everything feels like it’s a dream to me, Sherlock.” John chuckled in disbelief. “A celebrity talking to me, enjoying my company, telling me I’m interesting , hell, even kissing me- they’re just a all a part of a..” John caught Sherlock’s stare and drowned in his eyes. They were mesmerizing, enigmatic yet beautiful, and who wouldn’t want to stare at him for hours? “Very.. pleasant… dream.”

 

There was a pregnant silence that passed through them, but John knew it wasn’t just silence. It was waiting. Sherlock was waiting for him to do something, and he was even _allowing_ it. John moved slowly, his hand almost touching Sherlock’s cheek-

 

When the door opened. It revealed Mycroft, with a look of disdain on his face. “Are you done?”

 

“Just one last question, please.” John managed to say without sounding awkward. The door closed once again.

 

“Are you.. busy tonight?”

 

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

 

John had deflated. All of his hopes for a continuing relationship with this man turned into despair. He was thankful that at that exact moment, Mycroft came in with another reporter in tow. He held out his hand to Sherlock, who had shook it slowly.

 

“It was nice talking to you, Mr. Holmes.” He flashed him the happiest smile he could manage with his current emotional state. “You are Farmers Weekly’s favorite actor.” He walked through the door without glancing back.

 

It was enough to have his heart somewhat broken once. It wouldn’t be fair to him to glance back and fantasize about kissing him again when he clearly couldn’t. He was just being delusional.

 

When he finished going through all the casts (asking them what their favorite crop was, how would they do if their character were to be a farmer in occupation, failing tremendously at keeping up with the top trends), he met the man behind him earlier in the hall.

 

“How was Sherlock Holmes? Journalists often do not want to come across him because he’s unpleasant and rude.” The man asked.

 

“Exactly what you said,” he murmured, still hung up on his disappointment.

 

“Oh, he took the flowers.” He pointed to his empty hands.

 

“Yes.” John looked surprised. “He was a bastard about it.”

 

He was about to walk away when he was pulled by the woman earlier. “Would you wait for a while first, sir? Someone has called for you.”

 

John looked dejected, but he couldn’t refuse. “I’ll wait by the seats.” He headed to the seat he had before and sat, wondering about why he had thought of having a chance with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 

He followed the woman as she went to the end of the hall. He opened the door, and saw Sherlock, taking his coat off and rubbing away the make-up on his face. The woman closed the door behind him.

 

“So,” he mumbled, putting the cloth he used to remove his make-up on the table in front of him. “I’ve cancelled my plans tonight.”

 

John suddenly lit up. “Really?”

 

“I’m sure the journalist of Farmers Weekly is intelligent enough not to ask for repetition.” He leaned on the wall.

 

“That’s great,” John couldn’t contain his excitement. “That’s – Oh, shit buggering fuck.”

 

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

 

John rubbed his hands on his face exasperatingly. “It’s my sister’s birthday. We’re having a party tonight. Good lord, I should- “

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“No, no, it’s fine, I’ll just take Hamish to the party and we can-“

 

“No. I can be your date to the party. We can take Hamish together. It’s fine.”

 

John looked at Sherlock incredulously. “Seriously? You’ll be my date?”

 

“Repetition is tedious, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“My sister’s a bad cook. Her food tastes like socks.” John was rambling because he couldn’t believe what Sherlock had just said.

 

“Okay.” Sherlock gave him a lopsided grin.

 

“Okay.” John smiled back.


	4. Let me see who you are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, god. My titles are becoming unoriginal. Help.
> 
> P.S. : I listened to Your Hand in Mine by Explosions in The Sky while writing the last part. It's lovely. You could try listening to it while writing sappy romantic scenes.

“Mister Sherlock, you’re driving past the speed limit!” Hamish persistently nudged at Sherlock as he drove.

 

            Sherlock sighed exasperatingly. “Hamish, we won’t get there in time if you keep on bothering me. This is perfectly legal in cases of emergency.”

 

            “But, we’ll get caught, Mister Sherlock! We will have to wait overnight in jail and not get to Auntie Harry’s party! It will be all your fault, since you wanted to bring a car!” The boy was basically pulling on the cloth on his arm now. John laughed. His son, young as he was, was chastising someone decades older than him. He was stubborn, but at least he was fighting for what was right. He could see a bit of himself in Hamish now.

 

            Sherlock ignored him and kept on driving. John looked out the window and saw the liveliness of London. The streets were bustling with color, busy people rushing about, kids having no care in the world... It reminded him of the reason why he decided to keep on living in London, despite how expensive it is to live here. There was a life, there was excitement, there was happiness here. There was diversity. It was in London that he had married the love of his life, in here where he lost her, and in here where he had the best thing he could ever have: his son.

 

            They finally slowed when the GPS in Sherlock’s car (more like Mycroft’s car, he’d stolen it) said they only had 300 meters to go. They stopped in front of a familiar house with a mini garden in front. The house stood out from all the others because it was colored with bright purple and had a soft pink door. From what he had heard, Harry had chosen the purple and Clara had chosen the pink. It looked like some stereotypical mean-girl dorm house, however it was anything but.

 

            “Oops, sorry, it’s too late to slow down, we’re already here.” Sherlock said to Hamish as he brushed off the kid’s arm. God, he was childish.

 

            Hamish bit the inside of his cheek. It had dawned on him that while he was stubbornly arguing with Sherlock, his driving was undeterred. John was afraid he was about to cry, so he held out his hands for him to jump in. He shook his head, and instead, jumped on Sherlock’s lap. “You’ll have to carry me inside for not slowing down!” He banged his tiny fists on Sherlock’s chest.

 

            “Fine, fine.” Sherlock, annoyed, picked up the child from his lap and opened the door. He stood, putting an arm on his waist as he hoisted him up. John could only watch the two children in amusement. He got out of the car, and slammed the door shut. He rang the doorbell as the other two bickered beside him.

 

            Harry was the one who opened the door. She was wearing a light blue apron on top of an off-shoulder cream top and baggy jeans. Hamish instantly cried out to her and jumped out of Sherlock’s arms. Hamish hugged her waist.

 

            “Hamish! Nice to see you!” Harry greeted as she ruffled the boy’s hair. She looked back to John. “John, you’re becoming thinner, you twat. What have you been eating?”

 

            John smiled at her tiredly. “Happy Birthday, Harry. From me, Hamish, and Sherlock.” He handed her his gift, which Sherlock insisted on wrapping with silver glossy paper.

 

            “Sherlock? Who the hell-“ That was when Harry noticed the man beside John. Her mouth hanged open in shock, her eyes scanning him from head to toe to make sure. “Sherlock Holmes?! Holy shit, John. You’re friends?!”

 

            John looked at Sherlock. He was glaring at her. He was about to speak when John interrupted him. “Yeah, we’re friends. Mind showing us in? It’s getting cold.”

 

            Harry mumbled an ‘of course’ absentmindedly as she gave them space to enter. She showed them towards the living room. There, on the couch, was Clara and Amy. Amy instantly hugged Hamish, and gave him a party hat.

 

            John went towards Clara and greeted her. “Good evening, Clara. This is-“

 

            “Clara, he’s got Sherlock bloody Holmes with him!” Harry cried out from the kitchen.

 

            That made Sherlock all the more annoyed with Harry.  John didn’t know why, but he decided to ignore it.

 

            Clara was as starstruck as Harry. At least she handled it better. She treated him as if he were a guest of the house, not some hot actor from a movie she just watched. They shook hands.

 

            Meanwhile as the adults got their acts together, the children were gossiping amongst themselves. Hamish looked accusingly at Sherlock, before telling Amy why he looked a bit upset with him when she prodded. “He went over the speed limit!” He petulantly said.

 

            Amy, however, was only fascinated by the man. “I’ve watched him on TV, Hamish! He’s the alien man from Star Trek!”

 

            Hamish looked at Sherlock, then to Amy. “He was an alien there?”

 

            “Yes!” She squealed. “He was a good-looking alien. He also had blood that can make others live again!”

 

            “Really?” He ran to Sherlock and tugged on his pants. “You’re an alien?”

 

            Sherlock looked at him, confused for a moment, before everything dawned on him. “I was a superhuman.”

 

            Hamish gasped. “What did they do to you?”

 

            “I was meant for war. I was meant to conquer worlds.” Sherlock went into ‘actor’ mode, kneeling down and picking up Hamish.

 

            Everyone looked surprised to see the skilled actor turn into someone they watch and admire from afar. That was when the doorbell decided to ring.

 

            “I’ll get it!” Clara exclaimed as she stood out, her voice ringing throughout the frozen people of Harry’s living room.

 

            “What did you do?” Hamish, unfazed by Sherlock’s prowess, continued on his questioning. He really did love space and science fiction.

 

            Sherlock lowered his voice and whispered. “.. I killed people. Men and women. Children. Thousands of them. No one could stop _me_.”

 

            Hamish glared at him. He jumped out of his arms and hid behind John’s leg. “Dad, he’s not just a traffic offender, he’s even a murderer! Why are you friends with him?!” He pointed accusingly at Sherlock.

 

            John and Sherlock looked at each other before breaking into laughs. Hamish looked at them confusedly, before running off with Amy to play in her room.

 

            “I should probably tell you off for scaring my son,” John said in between laughs.

 

            Sherlock was smirking. “He didn’t seem scared to me. He should be in the Met, with stubbornness like that. Or a lawyer.”

 

            “Who should be in the Met?” From the door came Greg, who was carrying a huge box on his left hand and a bouquet of flowers on the other. John was about to greet him and introduce him to Sherlock (oh, his expression would be priceless!) when the man proceeded to the kitchen to greet Harry. Then, he went back to the living room and started looking for something.

 

            “Where’s little Hamie?” he asked, quite distracted. He stopped as he came face to face with Sherlock’s arse. He was frozen for a moment, before he slowly moved his mouth.

 

            “I know this arse. Oh. Holy. Mother. Of-“ He abruptly stood up, and moved in front of Sherlock to look him in the eye. “-Fuck.” Greg’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Shit shit shit shit. Why the fuck did I not see you earlier?” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and shook it furiously. “Gregory Lestrade. Pleased to meet you.”

 

            Sherlock was clearly amused. “Are you some kind of pervert?”

 

            Gregory, though flustered, glared at him. “Rude. I just like staring at perfect arses.”

 

            John was glad his friend got along with Sherlock. He was happy that it wasn’t only him and Hamish who could stand up to the guy. He thought these two might become friends in the long run. Well, he just hoped Greg’s kink for plump arses doesn’t hinder their relationship.

 

            “John! Get your arse here!” Harry called out from the kitchen.

 

            John sighed. “Do you mind?”

 

            Sherlock shrugged. “Where’s the loo?”

 

            “I’ll take you there.” Greg offered, placing his hands in his pocket.

 

            “I don’t want to get raped.” Sherlock turned his back to Greg as he saw Clara signaling him the directions. He bowed his head in thanks, and went away. John took that as a cue to leave.

 

            “Like I said, rude.” He crossed his arms as he sat and made himself comfortable on the couch. “I wonder if John’s dating him. I mean, he looks like he’s made up of sexual tension for the man.”

 

            Clara sat herself beside Greg and sighed. “Not that I think. John’s not being smooth with him like he usually does with other people.”

 

            “The lost Three Continents Watson, huh.” Greg frowned. “Still, it’s tremendous progress from Mary. I mean, he managed to snag a movie star.”

 

            “We’re not sure they’re snogging yet.”

 

            “They might as well be. Did you see how much attention he paid to him when he asked to help Harry? It was like he was zeroing in on him.”

* * *

            Dinner was great. Sherlock kept quiet most of the time, silently observing around the table. He could see how everyone was happy about coming together. Especially John. He was probably more relieved than happy that his sister was finally keeping off the alcohol.

 

            John was laughing a lot, with Greg making so much jokes and Harry going along with them. Clara was minding Amy, but she would play along as well. John also secretly liked how Sherlock’s gaze mostly fell on him. He knew he was observing, and he hoped he liked what he saw in this table. Maybe, just maybe.. someday, John might be able to bring him back and let him join in. He was very welcome in all of this.

 

            It was time. The last brownie lay innocently at the center of the table.

 

            “The one who gets the last brownie this time,” Clara started. She made delicious pastries, and brownies were just one of them. “Is the most miserable person alive on this table. Now, children, it’s time for your playtime in Amy’s room.” She winked at Hamish and whispered. “You’ve got a box of brownies to feast on there.”

 

            Everyone clapped their hands. The children were eager to eat their own box of brownies. They excitedly got off of their seats and ran towards Amy’s room.

 

            “Let’s start with Greg.” Clara gave him the plate containing the last brownie. “Make us miserable.”

 

            “Well,” Greg hung his head low. He spoke exaggeratedly. “I’ve wasted almost twelve years of my life doing the wrong job. Now, I’m starting on what I love and I’m thirty-eight. A lot of the people in my job tell me I’m too late. I’ve been assigned to fucking traffic! God knows how hard it is to manage the roads without flipping every single driver that honks at me! The worst of it all is my singleness, which I try to change for years, to no avail.” He leaned and rested his head on John’s shoulder, which John nudged away playfully.

 

            Harry grabbed the plate from Greg and hissed at him for being so melodramatic. “Well, at least you have a job that gets you by! I barely can get my family through a week. We've spent so much of our savings on this party, mind you, so appreciate the food.” She pointedly glared at Sherlock, who ate little through the course of the evening. He glared back. Of course, Sherlock Holmes had his pride. “I’ve applied for other jobs. At least you can still have a child, Greg, if you choose the right woman. Clara and I..” She turned quiet for a while. Everybody waited for her to continue, but no one tried to prod her to do so. Clara reached towards her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “We’re never having kids again. I’m barren, and Clara recently had to remove her uterus due a benign cyst.”

 

            Everybody’s stares gave her a silent comfort. However, instead of tearing up, she smiled. Harry was no weak woman. John looked at her proudly.

 

            “But, I think John deserves the brownie more.” Harry passed the plate to John, who amusedly took it. “Getting invalided home because he got shot, marrying a woman who ended up loving another man, raising a kid with a job that pays so little he practically begged to let his son get education, losing his sexual prowess and failing to make a move on Sherlock Holmes.” She turned to Sherlock, and patted his back. Sherlock grew rigid. “He hasn’t fucked you, has he? He usually fucks his dates after three hours of meeting them. The most he had to wait was twenty four.”

 

            “Hey.” John warned Harry with his tone. “Yes, yes, I am visibly the most miserable man anyone has got to meet.” He opened his mouth to eat the brownie, but was halted by Sherlock clearing his throat.

 

            “I don’t.. Can’t I try to at least have the brownie?” He looked vulnerable as he admitted his want for the brownie. It was almost like seeing a child asking for permission. Everyone burst into chuckles, as John gave the plate to Sherlock. There was something in Sherlock’s eyes that suggested this was a big step for him, so John just gave him an encouraging smile. They’ll take what he can give.

 

            “I have been diagnosed as a sociopath when I was seven,” he started, feeling everyone’s eyes on him. Sherlock’s best defense was his acting, so he added a little bit drama in his expression. Although he didn’t really mind telling them, there was a feeling in his chest which indicated that this was a personal thing, and it felt like too much to let the words be released from his mouth. “I don’t have friends.” He glanced at John, and saw a tinge of hurt there. He tried to convey in his eyes that it changed now. “I don’t like pretending to smile in front of the camera and going to all these celebrity parties that prove nothing but their hydrocephalic prides. It’s tiring to be prejudged as stupid just because you’re an actor.  I have a tedious life. I am a recovering addict from cocaine. I almost committed suicide with cocaine because of the thrill it gave me.” It was a trigger to Harry’s alcohol addiction. But, there was no other way of rephrasing it. “I am a smart, pathetic man who will most likely be forgotten by people when I don’t act anymore, which I might be doing in the near future.” There was an air of nonchalance around him. He tried to look miserable about it. 

 

            Everyone was silent. They were all looking at him as if he were an impossible human being. Well, except for John. John looked at him as if he understood. He understood, and he wanted to carry on. There was nothing that would change John’s view on Sherlock. Other trivial things didn’t matter to him, as long as he had Sherlock.

 

Oh, shit. John was sounding like a sappy love story. John was sounding like a lot of pathetic things these days.

 

            “Nope, you’re not hogging my brownie,” John said as he forcefully grabbed the plate from Sherlock. Everybody laughed. Harry gave Sherlock a sympathetic pat on the back.

 

            The doorbell suddenly rang. Everybody froze, because they clearly weren’t expecting another visitor. Harry stood up from the table to answer the door.

 

            Moments later, Mycroft had emerged from the door and walked towards the dining table, seething as he looked at Sherlock. He was wearing the same cream-colored suit he wore earlier, except now his hair was disheveled, and his cheeks were colored. He was panting furiously.

 

            “Oh, god, now _that’s_ the perfect of all perfect arses.” Greg whispered to John, although his whisper was loud enough for everyone to hear. Clara glared at him.

 

             Sherlock glared at Mycroft, and he glared back. No one broke the livid glaring match between the two, in fear of being electrocuted and flying off to the nearest supermassive black hole in space.

 

            Mycroft was the first one to break the ice, though. “Good evening, and happy birthday, Harry Watson.” He smiled at her, but he looked like a lizard with grave intentions. “I’m happy you treat my brother as a great guest. God knows he isn’t when he’s at _home_.” His stress on the word made John think that this petty fight was connected to it.

 

Wait.

 

_Brothers?_

_  
_

“You two are brothers? Isn’t he your manager?” John asked incredulously. They didn’t look like they’re brothers. But, he could definitely see Violet Holmes’ face on Mycroft and Timothy Holmes’ hair; he did have that wavy hair pulled to the back. Sherlock had his father’s face. Mycroft was shorter than Sherlock, but he was still taller than the rest of England.

 

Sherlock looked at him as if he were the most ridiculous man on Earth.

 

No one was comfortable with the banter, so Clara took the situation into her hands. “Welcome, Mr. Holmes. We’ve just finished dinner, but we still have enough to serve for another guest. Come on, sit.” The way she said ‘sit’ was terrifyingly commanding, so Mycroft had no choice but to sit on the chair between Greg and Clara. Greg was still fucking Mycroft with his eyes.

 

Clara gave him a plate of mashed potatoes, and then a fork. “Here you go.”

* * *

Thankfully, the awkwardness simmered a few minutes later. Mycroft was awkward and formal with everyone, but this urged the others to make fun of him more. He explained that he had planted a tracking chip on Sherlock’s phone if in case he decided to go missing. Greg was nervously making his advances, which Mycroft turned down rudely. But, John guessed he got tired of refusing it because before the party ended, Greg’s arm was resting on the back rest of Mycroft’s chair.

 

They said their goodbyes, with Mycroft taking his car back and giving Sherlock the keys to his own car (Sherlock’s car was a silver Porsche). John was carrying a sleepy Hamish.

 

“Is it okay if we go on a little detour?” Sherlock asked, his hands already on the wheel. John nodded quietly as he silently placed Hamish on the back seat. He fell asleep within seconds.

 

Sherlock drove just like before, speeding when they were in a no-police zone and slowing down when he saw some police. He would make the perfect enemy to Greg.

 

Soon, they slowed as they came in front of an abandoned building. This was probably a parking lot before, since it had ramps wide enough for cars. Sherlock, without hesitation, entered the building and drove his way up until they reached the rooftop. He stopped the car just in front of the barrier over the edge. He rolled down the windows, and opened his door.

 

“Let’s sit there,” he pointed towards the hood of his car. John placed his cardigan around Hamish. He got out of the car, and propped himself up to the hood. Sherlock did the same, and soon, they were sitting comfortably, their legs stretched and their backs supported by the windshield. It was windy tonight, but not windy enough for the clouds to cover the skies. The stars twinkled proudly in the dark sky, some more proudly than others.

 

“I hate your sister,” Sherlock broke the silence.

 

“Why?” John asked as he turned his gaze towards Sherlock.

 

“Ex-addicts can only do two things in the presence of other ex-addicts: one, is relate with them and be their friend. Second is to hate them for their success. I have no friends, John. Guess where I fall.” He crossed his legs.

 

John rested his head against the windshield. “Am I not your friend?”

 

There was a long silence before Sherlock answered. “Maybe.”

 

John, perplexed, turned to Sherlock. “What’s that supposed to-“He was cut off by soft, plump lips locking with his. He was quite ashamed; the coldness made John’s lips chapped and dry. But, Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. They went on for a couple of moments, giving in to the feeling of each other’s presence, cherishing the warmth that they shared, and loving the sensitivity it gave them. It felt like his lips were on fire from the constant contact he had.

 

Slowly, Sherlock pulled away. He resumed to his previous position.

 

John could only smile to himself as he looked at the stars.

 

“This parking lot was burned by someone unknown, most likely an employee of the rival parking lot just a few meters away from this one.” Sherlock muttered, his low voice enticing John to listen well. “There were some who died because they stayed in their cars. But, it was only a few. Two of those are the unidentified couple. From the investigations, it was clear that they were both old. There was enough left on their body to prove that by. However, what was peculiar about it was how they died. The old man’s position was protective; he was pinning down his wife with his back towards the path of the fire. However, he failed because they both died anyway. Their lips were also locked onto each other’s.” He stippled his fingers under his chin. “It’s puzzling. Why would the old man protect her from getting burned, if he knew that their death was inevitable?”

 

John sighed. The story was touching, actually. But, he couldn’t figure how Sherlock wouldn’t understand it. “He had to try, Sherlock. He had to do everything in his power to try to protect her.”

 

“I still do not understand. Why did he _have_ to _try_?”

 

“He loved her, Sherlock.” John explained. “He loved her, that’s why he had to try all that he can to protect her. Even if it’s the smallest of all chances.”

 

“Love.” Sherlock repeated it like a foreign word he wasn’t used to saying. “ _Why_? Love is just a chemical defect.”

 

“It’s not.” He whispered, remembering Mary, then Hamish, and then this man, this utterly clueless man in front of him. “Love is more than that. Love, despite the mortality of mankind and everything else, stays forever. When a couple as old as the couple you mentioned dies, they leave a trace of their love behind. It’s either through their children, or through their story. Love is something that makes any living being happy, even for just a few moments. Love is so much more than a chemical defect.”

 

Sherlock looked at him, seemingly contemplating on John’s honest outburst. After a while, the corners of his mouth twitched, and he leaned in for another kiss, which John took gladly.

 

They were kissing under the dark sky, with spots of twinkling brightness witnessing the moment. The whole situation almost felt poetic and romantic to John. He could look at Sherlock and see the stars behind him, like he was one of them. Sherlock looked like everything beautiful to John: the small drops of rain as it hits the ground, the first snow falling, Hamish laughing and smiling, and love displayed confidently. He was but one man who looked like the world to another man.

 

Their kiss was more passionate than the other one; it was intoxicating. His lips were a type of drug that John would willingly be addicted to. 

 

After pulling away, Sherlock rubbed John’s cheek with his thumb. “Meet me at ten in the morning in my house with Hamish. We’ll drive him to Harry’s and let him stay there for the day.”

 

John felt like this was all a dream once again. A handsome man like Sherlock was inviting him out on a date tomorrow. And, possibly even _more_.

 

He unconsciously grinned at him as he nodded. “Okay.”


	5. Thoughts are just thoughts. Want is just want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can Scotland Yard immediately send a team of fishers in a few minutes? Guess not. Forgive me for that slight aberration, and allow me for it. Also, sorry for the lousy excuse of a case. D:

            John arrived outside the familiar yellow-bricked house with a bit of ease in his mind. He was up all night, thinking about their glorious night together. Sherlock had kissed him not once, but twice! He wouldn’t usually dwell on a certain night unless he had sex, but there was something about being with Sherlock that made simple snogging into something more special. And, he was happy the handsome man returned his affections. Or, at least that was what it seemed last night.

 

He knocked on the door lightly, afraid that the Holmes couple was still sleeping. To his surprise, Timothy Holmes had answered the door, all bright and jolly. It was kind of puzzling how Sherlock and Mycroft almost never smile sincerely, while their parents wouldn’t let a stranger pass them without a smile from them. Timothy warmly ushered John in.

 

“It’s good to see you again, John. Go on, sit. Sherlock told us to let you wait here; he was reading through something.” Timothy pointed to the warm red couch with its back against the wall. He thanked him, and sat comfortably. He couldn’t believe Sherlock and Mycroft grew up here. They were all edges, and looked like they were brought up by royals. The house, along with Timothy and Violet, was affectionate and simple. It was a picture of a perfect household.

 

“John!” He could hear Violet cry out from the kitchen. “Come and try my apple pie! God knows how my two boys don’t eat enough!”

 

John chuckled as he ventured towards the door hole that indicated it was the entrance to the kitchen. He saw a wooden table, with six tall wooden chairs around it. Violet removed the pie from the oven and placed it at the center of the table. On the farthest wooden chair to his left was Mycroft, lazily chewing on what looked like a chocolate chip cookie and typing away on his laptop. He nodded towards Mycroft, and took a seat across Timothy.

 

“So, John, you have a bookshop?” Timothy clasped his hands together as he leaned towards him.

 

“Yes, sir. How did you know?” John relaxed his tense shoulders. “It’s just a couple of streets away. Hammersmith Books.”

 

“Mycroft told me about you. Ah,’ a flash of recognition passed through Timothy’s face. “I’ve gone there once. Bought ‘A Time to Kill’ by John Grisham. Nice book, that.”

 

John felt invaded. He felt like Mycroft was a stalker. But, he guessed it was his own way of keeping his brother safe. Mycroft must have always done this to every acquaintance Sherlock had. Still. _Creepy_. “Yes, it’s quite the book. I couldn’t quite believe cults dedicated to clear the world of Blacks exist. There’s something grappling about the morality shown by Brigance, because it is quite the rarity in society nowadays.”

 

“A man after my own heart!” Timothy reached to pat John’s back. “Your shop’s a nice shop. It has that homey feeling modern bookshops don’t have. Why don’t you go online to broaden your prospects?”

 

John shook his head. “We only have enough to get the bookshop running.”

 

“Let Mycroft help you. He’s a great manager to Sherlock.” Timothy gestured to Mycroft, who seemed annoyed to be suddenly thrust into the conversation. “I’m sure he’ll be a great manager to you, too.”

 

“Father-“

 

Mycroft was interrupted by the door opening. There, on the doorway, was a timid young woman who looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. The skin under her eyes were very dark, her hair looked like it was tied in a hurry, and her lipstick had a bit of a smudge on the corner of her lip. Violet gestured for her to come in. She walked carefully, almost as if she were to be eaten by her high heels if she fell, and greeted everyone.

 

“I’m so sorry for the intrusion,” she tiredly said, setting down the laptop she brought with her. She took a phone out of her pocket and slid it to Mycroft through the table. “There’s someone who kept on calling the hotline since six in the morning. But, the man told me he was looking for you, not Sherlock.”

 

Everyone’s eyes flew to Mycroft in alarm. It might be a crazy stalker. Even Mycroft looked a bit tense. There was a terrifying silence adrift in the kitchen as they waited for Mycroft to call.

 

He picked up the phone and called the most recent number that called. After three rings, the ‘stalker’ picked up. They could all hear the voice.

 

“Yeah? Hello? Have you finally decided to give me Mycroft’s number?”

 

John’s eyes widened. “ _Greg?_ ”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he stood and walked towards the door. He looked really annoyed.

 

John snickered to himself. Greg was smitten with the man. He hoped it would work out between them, because Greg had gone too long without anyone really staying with him, and he deserved a good man. Not that John thought of Mycroft as much of a good man.

 

Violet gave both John and the woman a plate with a slice of pie. They both said their thanks. John picked up the pie from the plate, and experimentally bit. It was delicious. It had the right amount of sweetness and softness that only a perfect pie could have. He raised his thumbs towards Violet to tell her she did great.

 

John realized that the woman earlier was looking at him. He stared back, and she smiled. She wasn’t doing anything, so he took the initiative. “Hi, I’m John Watson.”

 

“He’s Sherlock’s friend,” Violet added.

 

“Oh,” she looked surprised. “Right. I’m Molly Hooper, Sherlock’s publicist.”

 

Molly didn’t look like a publicist. She was shy and timid. She was the kind of person who looked like she needed help in a crowded room. But, John guessed looks can deceive. Molly might be an introvert, but she might have used that charm to get connections.

 

“John! There was a body discovered near the Thames!” He heard Sherlock shout as he came down the set of stairs. He was wearing the nice, long coat that bellowed whenever he ran. He grinned as he came closer to John.

 

“The color of your jumper’s better. Blue makes your eyes stand out,” Sherlock gave John a one over before setting his eyes on Violet, who was hovering to straighten his coat and fix his hair.

 

“You’re hardly a child anymore, Sherlock. Comb your hair properly!” She scolded as she pressed flat the puffy areas of his hair and untangle his locks. Timothy, John and Molly share a laugh.

 

John glanced at Molly. She was staring at Sherlock, but she had that look in her eyes that said she was longing for him. Ah. Molly loved Sherlock. However, judging by how Sherlock characterized himself and acted, he must have turned her down. He patted her out of sympathy. She was startled at first, and then nodded at him in understanding.

 

Sherlock pulled John out of his chair. “We have thirty minutes before the police start snooping again. Come on, John!”

 

John got pulled out of the house and in a cab in an instant. Everything almost seemed fantastic. He never expected a normal date with Sherlock Holmes. Well, if a crime scene is part of their itinerary, so be it.

* * *

 

Somehow, John regretted saying he was ready for this.

 

The victim was a fucking kid. He had this massive slice on his side, but the cut was clean and precise, like it had been intentional. His eyeballs had been gouged out, too. Most of the blood was in the Thames already.

 

John couldn’t even stand looking at it for a minute.

 

Sherlock, however, stooped down and inspected the body with his tiny magnifying glass. He was so unnerved by it that John wondered if the dead bodies in movies were real. Did he have to deal with it, too? Christ. That was _scary_.

 

Sherlock poked the body on the stomach, near the genital area, and then the chest. He stood, then went in front of John. “Cut was neat, and can be only made by a practiced surgeon. Internal organs plus eyes were removed. He is but an empty human body.”

 

“Lifeless, too. Christ.” John grimaced, forcing himself to stare at the body. Afghanistan had worse, but seeing this happen to a kid.. It felt unfair and pitiful.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him. Then, he went towards the Thames itself. “John, look.” He pointed towards an area of the Thames under the bridge.

 

John squinted, seeing nothing at first. But, once it became clearer, he was appalled. There was another body stuck on what looked like a piece of hook under the bridge. It had the same signs as the first kid had: gouged eyes, large side slash and no organs. They walked to the other side of the bridge to see the body clearly.

 

“Consistent in his way of killing,” Sherlock mumbled. “There must be other bodies in the Thames.”

 

“We should tell the police,” John said. “In fact, we should tell Greg.”

 

Sherlock scowled at him in distaste. “Why?”

 

“We cannot possibly fish out more bodies in the Thames by ourselves. Second, if we have a friend in the task force, we’re most likely to get what we want. Greg will trust us. They won’t have many questions.”

 

Sherlock seemed to consider this before he nodded. “We have to have the information today. Give me his number.”

 

John took out his mini address book and dictated Greg’s number. When he finished, he saw Sherlock glaring at his notebook. “What?” He hid his book defensively.

 

“We’re going to fix that. Come along.” Sherlock toddled off and got a cab.

 

Once inside the cab, John asked. “We’ll fix what?”

 

“You need a mobile phone, not an address book. In what era are you living, John?”

 

John instinctively reached towards his wallet. He looked inside to see only enough for food on this date. “I can’t.”

 

Sherlock stared at him like he was ridiculous. “I’m buying you one.”

 

“You can’t.” John insisted. “You cannot buy me a mobile phone.”

 

“Why not? It’ll make your life easier.”

 

“You don’t have to waste your money on me.”

 

“Oh, please.” Sherlock brushed him off. “I don’t buy a lot of things. Mostly chemicals or other chemical equipment. It’s not a burden.”

 

John could only look at Sherlock stiffly. He had held much regard for money because he was poor, his family was poor, and yet here was this beautiful young man, wasting his money on someone like him. It should be a perfect opportunity, if he were a covetous man, but he wasn’t.

 

Sherlock stared back at him, long and hard, until he crossed his arms. “You are not convincing me to not buy you a mobile. Besides, you need it to communicate to people. You live like a hermit.”

 

 

"No fucking way." John glared at him. He had expected Sherlock to treat him as an equal, which he had appreciate when he had done that when they first met, but insisting on buying was out of the line. He felt somewhat ridiculed. "You are not forcing me to accept that when I clearly don't want to. It's either you respect me, or you lose me this instant."

 

 

The panic in Sherlock's eyes was evident. It was obvious that he was used to having his way with anyone. He fell silent, and bowed his head. "I.. Sorry, John." He told the cab to go back.

 

John nodded at him. "Now, we have to get Greg quickly."

* * *

 

The rescue team came ten minutes later Greg arrived twenty minutes after. them, looking distressed. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the two of them. 

 

“Thank god you’re still here. They're currently trying to fish out. From what I've heard, they've found three children?” Greg sounded like he was affected as John was about this. He gave him a tap on the back. He looked at John gratefully.

 

While waiting for more bodies, Sherlock scanned the surroundings. His gaze landed and fixated on a certain red house. Rather, the pathway between the house itself and the Thames. He ran towards it. John had no choice but to follow. Greg followed, too.

 

The lanky bloke took his mini magnifying glass out as he went towards a specific tree with a garbage can beside it (the bin stunk of decay. John had suspicions about it). John couldn’t understand why he was looking at it intently. Suddenly, he pocketed the glass and turned towards the house.

 

He knocked on the door politely. The door opened, and revealed a stocky man with an ‘I Love Ken’ tattoo on his shoulder, eating a slice of apple. He certainly didn’t look like he’d prefer men over women. He looked like a womanizer.

 

“Yes?” The man said, confused. Sherlock told him he was part of the survey group for the BBC. The man tried to answer his questions as much as he could. Then, Sherlock said goodbye.

 

He walked back towards the two of them. “It’s him.”

 

Greg gaped at him. “Are you sure?”

 

“A hundred percent.” He went towards the tree and pointed at random spots on the trunk. To John, it looked random. “Blood stains. They aren’t noticeable enough. He was stocky, but his hands were neat and unblemished of wounds. His slicing skills were exemplary, judging by the apple he had. There were three children inside, one of whom stared at me, scared. And-“ he opened the garbage bin, which revealed little black bags. “- these are the unwanted organs.” Sherlock walked over to Greg and tugged on his uniform. He held up a pair of handcuffs. “Come along, John. Prepare your gun.”

 

Greg looked at John accusingly. John just shrugged. He had kept the gun with him at all times, in case of emergencies. He was starting forget about it until Sherlock came along. They sneaked through the back door, but they found it open, with the children tied up to each other on the table.

 

“Damn it! Do not bring anyone in a uniform!” Sherlock shouted as he pulled on his hair. “Come, John! I know where he’ll go!”

 

* * *

 

They were able to catch the bastard in the end. They had a bit of a struggle, Sherlock ending up with a gash on his arm and a bloody nose for John. But, they took him out in a moment’s time. Sherlock called Greg to call on reinforcements. Soon, they were placed inside an ambulance with orange shock blankets on their backs.

 

“That was crazy.” John said unconsciously.

 

“Not your usual cup of tea?” Sherlock teased.

 

Greg slowly approached them from the herd of police crowding over where the criminal lay unconscious.

 

“Great work, Sherlock. Might consider a job in crime investigation?” He said, jabbing him lightly on the ribs. Sherlock winced.

 

“Considering it.” He said. “Got your promotion now?”

 

Greg lit up immediately. Promotion? Greg got promoted? “Yeah. It was a fast step up in the ladder. I’m a Detective Sergeant now. It’s a bloody miracle. Thanks, mate.”

 

“Really?” John asked, dumbfounded. 

 

“Yeah! Soon, I can be a Detective Inspector.” He turned towards Sherlock. “Listen. You’re a brilliant man. You have a talent for this. Do you think you could help me on cases when I’m out my depth?”

 

Sherlock was surprised. He should be used to getting offered jobs, since the acting business runs pretty much like that. Sometimes, it’s the actors begging for jobs. But, this seemed like a huge compliment for Sherlock. He grinned as he nodded. “I will always be available for help.”

 

Greg smacked Sherlock’s arm. He yelped in pain. Greg apologized for hitting his bad arm. “Thanks, mate. I really appreciate. Oh, and, uh..” He rubbed the nape of his neck. He seemed shy. “Could you put in a word for me to Mycroft? He won’t give me his number, and, just.. he looks like a really cool person, you know? Plus, he’s got the nicest arse anyone could ever have.”

 

John laughed at his friend’s silly antics. He had never seen Greg be reduced to a begging pile for a man. God, he needed to see him when they get together.

 

“As long as you’re not lusting over mine. It’s revolting.” Sherlock really did look disgusted.

 

“Rude.” Greg crossed his arms. “I told them they can take your statements tomorrow. You need to rest for now. Go eat out or something.”

 

Sherlock hopped off of the ambulance. “Come, John. Dinner?”

 

John stood and smiled. “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

They decided to get some dinner at Angelo’s. It turned out that Sherlock knew the owner, and he was given food pro bono every time he went there for getting his wife a job as Sebastian Moran’s publicist. They had some pasta and talked through some things involving the case. John was sure to come back here with Hamish in tow.

 

“So,” Sherlock wiped his mouth with a paper towel. “Why didn’t you date after your late wife?”

 

“I didn’t have time.” John answered. “My life’s all about Hamish now, how I could raise him as a good boy, if not totally the nicest, smartest, or the most talented.”

 

Sherlock was about to ask something again when they overheard some rather loud men seated behind Sherlock.

 

“Did you see the latest Star Trek film?” John saw a scruffy old man dressed in a poor excuse of suit say.

 

“Yeah, I thought it was good.”

 

“I only watched it for Sherlock Holmes.” A man with copper hair and a gangly body said. “That boy looks like he can take five cocks in one round. He’s not like the other actors who keep their dignity. He looks like he wants it anytime of the day. He’s gagging for it.” The rest of the men laughed along with him.

 

John’s forehead furrowed. How could these men think they have the right to degrade Sherlock like that? They were fucking twats who needed to be put in their place. However, violence would not be the answer. Angelo would frown on him if he punched them (even though he did want to have them spend the rest of their lives in the A&E). He stood and walked over to their table.

 

“Good evening,” he started politely. He was actually gritting his teeth already. “I happen to have heard what you said earlier about Sherlock Holmes, and, well. Look,” ‘Soldier John Watson’ came out. He had lowered his voice, and there was this dangerous expression on his face. He was as rigid as a soldier ready to attack an enemy. “You do not mess with my friend. I do not want you saying a thing like that about him ever again.”

 

“What are you, his dad?” The man who uttered the degrading joke said. The others snickered.

 

“Well,” he walked over to the primary suspect, put his arm around his shoulder, and leaned in. “I’m sorry if I haven’t made it clear that I know _forty two ways_ on how to murder _without weapons_. I have _gloves_ to dispose any evidence I might have on your body. Trust me, I’m a Captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers. Oh, and Angelo’s a friend. He. Won’t. Tell. _Anyone_.” He smiled at him and at the rest of the people on the table. He knew they had heard him. “Is that _fucking_ clear?”

 

All of the men nodded to him cautiously, as if one unnecessary nod would lead them to be murdered.

 

John walked back to their table and pulled Sherlock up. They got out of the restaurant, and started walking home.

 

Sherlock was smirking at John. “Not only pulling rank, but also threatening murder on innocent men- My, John, you are quite the offender.”

 

He shrugged, but there was a teasing smile on his face. “Try to piss me off, and I might do the same to you.”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “But..” He stopped looking at John. “What you did there was.. that was good.”

 

John felt a sudden warmth bloom across his chest. Sherlock had just complimented him. Well, who wouldn’t be happy when such a wonderful man compliments them? He resisted the urge to grab his face and snog it to oblivion. “You’re welcome.”

 

Thankfully, Hammersmith Books was just a few steps away. They soon arrived in comfortable silence. John stopped and turned towards Sherlock.

 

“Thank you. This has been a wonderful day.” John said, stepping closer. Sherlock didn’t step away. In fact, he was expecting this.

 

“It isn’t over,” Sherlock whispered as he grabbed John and crushed their lips together. He was opening his mouth eagerly, excited to have Sherlock’s tongue explore the depths of his mouth. He wanted to roll their tongues together until they both got tired and resorted to let their tongues roam freely on other parts of their body. They broke apart for a minute for John to open the door. Thankfully, Georgie knows when to close the shop. There was no one here, except for the two of them. When they finally entered the bookshop, Sherlock wasted no time and slammed John to the nearest bookshelf he could find. Good thing he wasn’t too forceful or the shelf must have given up on them. They latched their lips onto one another’s, desperate, passionate, and eager. Sherlock’s hands had found themselves raising John’s jumper until it was on his chest. They went back to untuck his undershirt, then slid themselves inside. John groaned as he felt Sherlock’s hands make contact with his skin. It felt like that part of him warmed up (not to mention the excited little fellow below).

 

A sudden high-pitched yet manly voice spoke out of nowhere. “I knew it, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock froze. John tried to look at who was in the dark. He squinted, to no avail.

 

Then, the lights turned on.

 

Walking towards them was a man in a nice, black suit with his hair pulled towards the back, much like Mycroft. He was short, but by the expression on his face, he told John that he wasn’t someone to be underestimated. He looked somewhat familiar, but John couldn’t figure out who he was.

 

“Hello, Sherlock. And, who might your cheating partner be?” The man asked, stopping and tapping his shoe on the floor. John wanted to detach it from him.

 

That was when John realized what he was saying. _Cheating_ partner? Did Sherlock have a boyfriend? Well, clearly, yes, this man was _his_ boyfriend. He moved away from Sherlock, shocked from the current state of events. Why the fuck was he making advances with him when he already had _someone_? Jesus, John had never thought he’d get entangled to something like this.

 

Sherlock seemed to get back to his senses. He looked at the man, shaken. Then, he changed his expression from mortified to sweet and smooth. _Huh_.

 

“Jim,” Sherlock acknowledged. From his body language, he looked like he was protecting John.

 

This ‘Jim’ grinned at him. He looked like a snake and a rat rolled into one. “I turn you away for a short while and this is what you get up to.”

 

Sherlock was shaking.

 

“Well, I’ll give you a choice, Sherlock.” Jim walked closer, until he was face to face with Sherlock. “You can go with me tonight, spend some time out in the city, or you can stay here, cooped up with Mister Hammersmith Books.”

 

There was an condescending silence that passed through them like a ghost. John looked at Sherlock’s back. Although he felt cheated and betrayed, there was still a small tinge in him that hoped he chose him. There was hope in him that some alternate universe would land on them and let Sherlock choose him. He had hoped he was enough for the actor.

 

But, evidently, he wasn’t.

 

Sherlock touched Jim’s arm gently, pulled him, and planted a chaste kiss on his lips. He broke away and held his face in his hands. “I’m sorry.”

 

Jim tiptoed to kiss him back. “It’s okay. Now, let’s get some dinner.” He walked in front of Sherlock and left the shop.

 

Sherlock followed after him, stealing a glimpse of John on the way. John looked at him as if he were begging him to stay. Sherlock looked away.

 

The bookshop was filled with silence once again A heartbreaking silence.

 

John didn’t fucking know what he had expected. Of course, he would choose him. He was the official one, the one he belonged to. John was just some tramp who was interesting for a while. He was just like a whore, begging for attention. He was just a _fling_.

 

But, he couldn’t help but think about Sherlock, his brilliance, his lips, his primary being. How he was allowed to touch and savor for moments. How it seemed like he was the world to the man once. He could only _want_.

 

But, John could never get.


	6. Chapter 5.1: You won't let me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a snippet on what happened after Sherlock got home that night. Warning for abuse, and quite OOC!Sherlock.

It was three in the morning. Mycroft bit his lip when he saw his brother storm through the door and bolted to his room as fast as he could. He knew this was going to happen again.

 

The first time this happened, Jim had told Molly they had a date and Sherlock had yet to be seen. Jim sounded sincerely sad, so Molly took pity on him and gave him his current location and whereabouts. Sherlock had decided to take a holiday in Nebraska then and get some plants to experiment with. Mycroft knew Sherlock put up a fight, but being dissuaded by his feelings for Jim, he backed down and followed him to wherever he wished. Jim had whisked him away to Greece and spent two days there. When his brother came back, Mycroft had deduced that Jim had hit him and had rough sex with him. He had purple bruises all over his body that had to be covered by too much make-up on his shoot for his upcoming movie.

 

Aside from being Sherlock’s manager and agent, Mycroft also worked for the government freelance. They gave him a good pay, and good connections, so he had Jim background researched before. It turned out that he was an ex-criminal, having a rather large criminal web. He was able to extinguish almost all the organizations. Jim was the only one left. It was hard to get to him because he was a celebrity.

 

Mycroft argued with Sherlock. He wanted him to get away from the man as soon as possible. Sherlock fought him with all his might, even running away from home and living with the homeless on the street for a week. He came back on the condition that he would be free to date Jim as much as he want, and Mycroft would get no say in it.

 

Molly had told him what happened earlier. There was a man who posed as Director Oswald, claiming he needed to talk about an upcoming project he wanted Sherlock to be the main in. She told him he was out with a friend, that he should wait by Hammersmith Books if he wanted to catch him. When she told Mycroft about it, he knew something was aloof. They tracked the number, and found out he was Jim’s manager. He also found out Sherlock had removed the tracker from his phone. Through his connections, he was given access to Hammersmith’s CCTVs and saw where he was. However, he was too late. Sherlock had already gone with him.

 

He decided to talk, for one last time, to his brother. It was killing Mycroft that Sherlock was allowing this to happen to him. He had hoped John Watson could knock some sense into him, that there are other men who can satisfy him and love him unconditionally, but Mycroft figured his brother was still delusional about his love for Jim Moriarty.

 

He opened the door, and slid himself inside the room. It was a mess like always: clothes strewn across the floor, shoes piled in front of the closet, amateur chemistry equipment on the floor. Sherlock was curled up on the bed, unmoving, but Mycroft knew he was awake.

 

“Sherlock,” he started vigilantly.

 

“I know, Mycroft. Stop being boring.” His voice was shaking. Mycroft’s anger for Jim Moriarty only grew. He broke his little brother, who was brilliant and full of life. He broke his innocence, however little there was of it.

 

“You’re getting more and more hurt.”

 

Sherlock sat up. “Well, isn’t that what always _happens_?”

 

Mycroft didn’t touch his brother. He kept his distance. “You’re not in love with him, Sherlock.”

 

He glared at him. “You think I don’t know, Mycroft? _Ha_. And, I thought you were smarter than I am.”

 

“You don’t.” He insisted.

 

Sherlock threw the pillow at his head. Mycroft dodged. “I do. I _always_ will. I belong to him, Mycroft. I am _his_.”

 

“You’re trapped.” He tried to keep a straight tone. “I can help you out, only if you’ll let me.”

 

“No!” Sherlock threw another pillow. It tipped some beakers. Thankfully, they were empty. “He’s the only thing I’ve ever known to love, Mycroft. He gave me _everything_. He gave me a reason to live. It’s all right to keep on getting hurt, as long as he still loves me. As long as I prove to myself that I still love him. He loves me, Mycroft. He loves me. Completely.”

 

“Was that a rehearsed speech? You totally proved your BAFTA right there.”

 

Sherlock scowled at him. “Get out of my fucking room, Mycroft! You know _nothing_!”

 

But, Mycroft knew everything. He knew Jim Moriarty got him into the show business. When his brother was out of reach and was probably going to rot in drug debt, Jim paid his way out. Jim saved him, and now, he became the monster to Sherlock.

 

He placed the pillows beside the door, and exited the room. He saw the brand new bruises on his brother’s wrist. He saw how broken he looked. And, he could do nothing.

 

He sighed as he went downstairs to get back to his work. His phone vibrated  twice from his pocket. He took it out and read the new messages.

 

 

_Hi, this is Gregory Lestrade. Sorry if I keep on texting you. I’m just really happy to have your number. You’re a gorgeous man, and I want to get to know you. You made me feel special just by giving your number to me. -GL_

_…Oh shit. That was cheesy and dorky. Please forget that. Get some sleep, beautiful. Tomorrow should be a good day. -GL_

 

 

Mycroft smiled. At least there was one person who cared to make him feel like he could do something to them. He put his phone back in his pocket and got back to work. _  
_


	7. Love is Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's love, Jim Moriarty. This is how Sherlock Holmes came to love and loathe the idea of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Another petty apology for not updating for four months. I've just gotten out of my first semester in university (barely alive!). I could only afford to write oneshots because it didn't require a lot of thinking and it was pretty much my stress reliever. I'm quite back from hiatus for the Christmas holidays! 
> 
> Enjoy this chapter and leave a comment or a review. This one's in Sherlock's POV. I've written it on my phone only, so please point out if there are any mistakes whatsoever.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR MENTIONS OF ABUSE. If you're triggered by abuse or any of that sort, please skip this. Take care of yourself, please. :)
> 
>  
> 
> READ ONLY IF YOU ARE SKIPPING THIS CHAPTER: Sherlock is bored of the world so he takes drugs. When he could no longer pay his dealer, he is beaten to death while he was high. Jim Moriarty saves him by paying his debt. He gets Sherlock into the entertainment business. But, Jim abuses Sherlock. Sherlock likes it at first, but loathes it once time went by. He finds out that Jim is an obsessive and insane man, and he cannot ever escape his grasp because he will lose everything. Even if John Watson seemed perfect, to Sherlock it felt like he couldn't get out.
> 
>  
> 
> Credits to ACD, Mark Gatiss, and Steven Moffat for this brilliant series, and for the production crew of Notting Hill for the lovely film.

When Sherlock first met James Moriarty, the thought of falling in love himself was very foreign. Love was for idiots who have low self-esteem and wanted reassurance that they are not alone. Sherlock wouldn't subject himself to that kind of idiocy. No, he wouldn't.

 

However, encountering the idiocy everyday left Sherlock no choice but to turn to something that could keep his mind quiet. You see, he thought everything was so dull and boring. They kept on doing the same things everyday. The rush of his brain was eating him, and he needed to stop it so that he wouldn't ruin himself.

 

He found all he wanted on a small wooden box his room mate left behind. Sherlock was wary of it first, but when he injected the unassuming 7% solution, he drowned in the stillness of his mind and the euphoric pleasure he would never have in reality. An injection a day turned into two, and when he ran out, he got himself a dealer by dropping out of uni and wandering the darker streets of London undetected. Even Mycroft didn't suspect a thing. All he knew was that his brother removed himself from Cambridge and that he was nowhere to be seen.

 

But, there was a time that things got out of hand, he ran out of money to pay his dealer and his "customers" found pretty boys younger than him to fuck. His misgivings caught up to him one day and he found himself battered and bruised and high beside a dirty dumpster with a screaming fat man above him. He thought he was going to die, and the idea was surely unpleasant at the time. Suddenly, fists were removed from his face, footsteps came near and hushed voices began to discuss payment and "this lanky motherfucker", and a rustling of paper (money!) was heard. He could hear the heavier footsteps fading, and a lighter one replacing it. He, then, felt the soft caress of a hand on his cheek and a light chuckle. Sherlock opened his eyes slowly, and tried hard to focus on the person in front of him. He was a small man wearing a clean suit and black dress shoes with pulled black hair. An actor, judging by the texture of his suit and the practiced expressions. Dull history of domestic abuse in his early years, ran away at age seven or eight, unassuming gold digger and- _oh_. This was interesting. Sherlock found himself lifting the left corner of his mouth to him.

 

"I'm James Moriarty." He grins, much like a predator circling his prey. Sherlock didn't give a fuck about his alarming instincts right now. "I'm going to have so much fun with you."

 

* * *

 

Jim let Sherlock sleep in his hidden flat for five days. In the duration of his stay, Sherlock had never felt so alive. Jim taught him the art of acting and practiced with him on the streets. He'd praise him for his skills and touch him, unlike any human being before. They had robbed a museum when he let Sherlock act as a thief with him. They laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all, of how both of their minds worked to conspire a flawless plan. Sherlock knew Jim wasn't showing too much of himself, but he didn't mind. Jim was not dull, he was exciting, smart, and loved giving Sherlock puzzles. He found himself wanting to keep him by his side forever.

 

So, he did what he knew could make Jim stay. He went into Jim's bed that night and let the man fuck him into oblivion. The sex was explosive, rough, and full of ecstasy, with Sherlock screaming the remains of his voice into the night. That was also when he discovered Jim's uncanny fascination to hitting. The man had asked if Sherlock would be adverse to using the riding crop. Familiar with its use, he allowed him permission and found angry red marks on his skin that lasted until the morning. But, he found that he couldn't even care less. Jim assured him he was there to stay forever. And, by the end of the fifth day, Jim asked him if he could do the same. Of course, Sherlock had agreed. The day after, they went to Mycroft, had some negotiations, and went off to live together. Of course, Mycroft thought he was ruining his life, but when had he ever thought of Sherlock doing otherwise?

 

Sherlock had joined the business through some calls, and finally started acting. He found himself enjoying the craft, often thinking about how he could brag about this to Jim and make fantasies of their own. They could have been explosive together, but Jim's manager told him people would pry. _They do nothing else_ , he said, but had let it go. When he got home, he'd be rewarded with more sex and more bruises. Jim was getting more and more practiced with hitting him at all the right places, where his bruises could be seen. His bruises were the reminder of his chain to Jim Moriarty, and he found that he didn't mind the idea of belonging to him.

 

At this time, Sherlock thought love didn't have to be tedious and dull just like everyone else. Love could be like Jim Moriarty, who was fun, dangerous, wild, puzzling, and thought he was brilliant. It was because Sherlock thought Jim was love.

 

* * *

 

 

His career rose, and his name was becoming more and more of a household name. He had landed on multiple lead roles, and Mycroft became fatter and happier. How he could juggle being the government and his manager, Sherlock didn't know, but the few pounds he put on were not to be missed. But, the bruises increased, until a large part of Sherlock's thigh bloomed in purples and yellows. He once came to work with a split lip, making an excuse about being clumsy and falling down a set of stairs rather harshly. Jim was getting more and more aggressive, and he even did it out of the bedroom. He would get bad moods at times, and he would take it out on Sherlock. He wouldn't call Sherlock a 'slut' or a 'cocksucking bastard' like his previous customers before, but his stare was enough to humiliate him and degrade him. Sherlock was getting more and more frustrated with him. He once thought he was enough to keep Jim's moods at bay, but they were both geniuses. It was a rather hard reality to admit that even geniuses need idiots to entertain them.

 

* * *

 

 

It all erupted when Sherlock found Jim in bed with Sebastian Moran, another actor whom he has stolen a lead role from. He came home from a rather tedious shoot involving repeated takes of an emotional scene, and was expecting Jim to be still at work. He opened the bedroom door and was greeted by the sight of a very naked Jim being thoroughly fucked by Sebastian Moran from the back. Jim came first, then Moran. After that, he let Moran's cock slide out of him and faced Sherlock with a grim expression.

 

They just stared at each other, until Sherlock ran out of the flat. He came back in the wee hours of the morning, smelling of cigarettes and sex. Jim was sitting calmly on the sofa when he arrived. The smaller man, then, proceeded to throw him onto their bed and fucked him until Sherlock was aching all over, not only because of fucking him roughly without any kind of lubricant, but also because of the broken arm that Jim twisted while he was drowning in his own head.

 

"You don't get to have a say in what I do, Sherlock. You don't own me. But, I own you. I put you here. I made you what you are today. You are mine, Sherlock. You will _always_  be mine." He heard Jim grin through his snarls. "Forever mine, Sherlock. You can't escape. No one can touch you. No one but me." He made sure to make Sherlock remember that by creating more spots on his skin that it was unimaginable to think that there was still that pale body underneath.

 

After Jim fucked him, he laid Sherlock gently on his side of the bed and kissed his forehead. Jim handled him with such care and fragility that Sherlock could almost forget how he had broken him minutes ago. He felt soft caresses over his skin, and the chaste and damp weight on his lips for a moment. "Only me, Sherlock. You love me. You will forever love me. It's only ever me. I love you." He had whispered.

 

 _Huh_ , Sherlock thought. _If that was the case, then love was a side effect. Love is obsession, and that is a dangerous side effect. It is nothing but a chemical defect of the brain._  He found he didn't want to meddle with it ever again.

 

* * *

 

But, John Watson came into his life with his clean cut, woolly jumpers, and the menace he made called Hamish Watson. He was intrigued by him, how he could possibly both be a soldier and a doctor. How he could ever patch up little Hamish's wounds but still bring a gun around at all times. How his jumpers hid the man who ran around in Afghanistan, shooting enemies and reviving comrades. How his rather boring life could hide the fact that he was an adrenaline junkie who needed the excitement desperately like a drug. He was a wonder, and with each bit he learned from him, more questions came and Sherlock was consumed by his curiosity. He had a strong moral ground, but he allowed Sherlock's ridiculousness. And, he treated him like an equal. He didn't see him as something above or under him, like Jim or his so-called 'fans'.

 

He doubted at first, whether to allow himself another chance to be vulnerable with another person. When he was finally ready to let John in, Jim came through the door of the bookshop and made Sherlock choose. The look on John's face told Sherlock that everything was broken, what they had before could not be restored, now that he has seen what monstrosity Sherlock was because that was how Jim made him. He wanted to loathe Jim to the very core, but there was this feeling of unease that if he chooses John now, he would lose everything forever. That was why Sherlock chose Jim and left John.

 

Because, after all, Jim was love. He realized he wasn't the genius he thought he was, because he became a slave to love just like every mundane person was.


	8. You Thought Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's depressed about Sherlock, and it's affecting Hamish. He tries dating, but it isn't what he wants. He wants Sherlock. And, well, when the man is least expected, he comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Belated Merry Christmas! God, everything became so busy. We had relatives over, and now, I'm in my grandparents' house. I'm actually so fucking tired, so forgive me for the ending of this chapter. To me, it seemed so scatterbrained. God. Sorry, everyone. But, I do hope you still enjoy the chapter and give your reviews. All my love, everyone. How was your Christmas, or whatever you celebrate on the 25th?

**Months later..**

 

John thumbed through the next page of ‘Winnie the Pooh’, Hamish was propped on his lap on the couch. He pointed towards a word on the next page.

 

“What’s this, Hamish?” He asked.

 

“That is, um..” Hamish concentrated his eyes on the letters, then smiling up to his father. “Broken!”

 

“Yes, that’s nice. That means something is damaged.” John said, his eyes falling back to the book. Hamish nodded at him. He unconsciously heaved a sigh, and went on to the next page. “Now, read this for me.” He pointed to a sentence.

 

Hamish wasn’t looking at the book, though. He was looking at his daddy, who looked so.. what was the word he had said earlier? Broken. The last time he had smiled was when Mister Sherlock came to drive him to Auntie Harry’s, because he and Daddy were going out for the day. After that, his Daddy always sighed, looked like he lost in a rugby game and would never win again. Of course, Hamish already called Auntie Harry about John, but they were too busy with her new work and what they called the ‘bills’ to come down. She called through the store’s telephone once a month to check, though. Daddy did try to go back to the way it was before, but he was still too sad. Hamish missed his happy Daddy.

 

John seemed to take notice of his son’s divided attention. “What’s wrong, Hamish?”

 

Hamish bit his lip, a bit hesitant. John placed his hand on Hamish’s back. This seemed to reassure him. He opened his mouth to speak rather feebly. “It’s just… Daddy, you’ve been sad for so long. It’s hard to remember how you look like when you smile. You’re like Pooh’s jar, daddy.” Hamish looked like he was about to cry. “You look like how you were when Mummy left us. Is this about Mister Sherlock?”

 

Hamish’s words hit John like a tidal wave crashing over a paper boat in the sea. What his son was saying is true. John’s chest clenched. He hadn’t meant for his depression to start affecting Hamish. In fact, he didn’t deserve to be affected by this. He didn’t deserve to be treated that way by John, of all people. Christ, he was his son. He had decided before that he would not let Sherlock come between them. John gritted his teeth in self-hatred.

 

He dropped the book from his hands and wrapped his arms around his son. “I’m sorry, Hame, I’m sorry,” He whispered as Hamish let out the beginnings of a sob. Soon, tears were falling quite rapidly down his cheeks. “I’m really sorry for leaving you alone again, Hamish. I’m really sorry,”

 

Hamish sobbed harder. He tried to contain it by clenching his fists. He wasn’t a crybaby, no, but when it came to moments like these.. when it came to moments where family was involved, he would. He would lose all his defenses, because that was what John taught him: family will protect you. That was what John showed when Hamish was depressed about Mary leaving. That was what allowed Hamish to change. “Please don’t go back to that. I don’t want you to be sad like that again, Daddy. If Mister Sherlock does that, he really isn’t a good friend. P-Plus, he’s a murderer. And a breaker of the law. He hates space fiction. Greg is better, Daddy.”

 

John smiled onto his hair. He hugged the little man tighter. “Thank you, Hamish. Mister Sherlock is someone I cannot have.”

 

Hamish stopped crying, but leftover tears were still staining his cheeks. He loosened the hug to look up. “You love him, Daddy?”

 

He guessed it was about time he knew. He didn’t want to be a different John to Hamish. He was his only remaining parent, for god’s sake. He had to be trustworthy to him in order to provide for him the best life he could ever have. Hamish was the reason he kept fighting, and he didn’t want to lose sight of that.

 

“Yes,” he breathed out, feelings of relief and doubt overcoming him. At least it was already out there.

 

Hamish seemed to consider him for a second before he nodded. He didn’t say anything more, only cuddling closer to his father. John decided it was time for bed. He carried Hamish in his arms, then went into the bedroom to tuck themselves in for the duration of the cold night.

* * *

 

“You knew Sherlock Holmes had a boyfriend?”

 

Harry looked away. Clara could only hold his hand in pity.

 

 

John sighed. “You knew he had a boyfriend,” he frowned in disbelief. “You didn’t even warn me.”

 

“I thought it was a one-off, a one night stand.” Harry raised both her hands in defense. “It’s pretty common among famous people nowadays.”

 

He could only stare at her in disgust and grief. Still, he couldn’t blame them. It was his ignorance that led to this. If he had known he was going in for danger, he might have backtracked instead of falling head over heels for the actor.

 

It wasn’t like John didn’t know about what happened to Sherlock. For months, he had been watching out for him, trying to catch a sign that maybe, just maybe, the actor was still thinking of him. But, he only caught the news that he had been caught up in a sex video, where Sherlock was practically begging to be fucked. It was a nasty video, they said. There was also gossip of it being rape or not. John hadn’t seen the video itself, but according to what Georgie told him, there was tremendous begging and spanking involved. Georgie could be quite graphic. However, despite this new information, John could not, in the very depths of his heart, think of Sherlock that way. He still believed in the brilliant and exhilarating man he knew months before.

 

But, who really knows the true Sherlock Holmes? He was an actor, for god’s sake. Acting and lying was how he lived. John be damned if his version of Sherlock was the true Sherlock Holmes.

 

“John, I’m sorry.” He heard the remorse in Harry’s voice. That was quite rare, since the Watson siblings were known to be very proud. That was a huge step for her, and John appreciated that. “Look, Sherlock Holmes is a lost cause, and you know it.”

 

He bit his lip.

 

“Don’t do that, you bitch.” Harry playfully swatted at John’s face, which he dodged efficiently. “So, I think it would interest you that I’m having a small dinner on Friday because a rather handsome friend of mine decided to drop by into town. Clara and I won’t mind paying for extra in the playhouse for Hamie just for you.” She winked.

 

John sighed. “Harry, I can’t. I’m not even-“

 

“John, you have got to _try_ ,” She stressed. “It’s been years since Mary, and months since Sherlock. You’ve been an utter mess since both, and it’s affecting my lovely nephew. You don’t know how much his voice wavered on the phone when he got too worried because of you.”

 

He looked down, quite ashamed of what he did to Hamish.

 

“At least try for Hamish, if not for you. You’re not alone anymore, like you used to be. You have Hamish with you. He trusts and relies on you, and if you can’t even trust yourself to move on, I don’t think he should have that much faith on you.” She reached for his good shoulder, and gave it a slight squeeze. “Do it for the little boy.”

 

After a moment’s breath, John glanced up at Harry, determined. “Fine.”

 

Harry and Clara looked at each other, and smiled.

* * *

 

“So, Terrence, right?” John smiled. Terrence was a good lot taller than John was, and dressed as if he were Britain’s next Top Model. He had a soft brown hair that was slicked into a short wave, reaching until the middle of his ear. His eyes were cerulean blue, and his nose was pointy and thin. He wasn’t as thin as Sherlock (good god, he was still thinking about the guy with a potential relationship right in front of him), but he wasn’t too flabby either. John could say Terrence had his body when he still was in the army. He was from Scotland, but Harry met him in one of her college parties. They’ve tried dating for a while, but Harry found out she preferred girls. They’ve become good friends ever since. Harry told John that Terrence was a pretty social guy, and he was nice to all types of people. He was also pretty smart. He worked as a doctor for the _Doctors Without Borders_ , often being out of the country to treat patients from different areas around the world. He sounded too much of a dream come true to John.

 

“Yes!” He smiled, quite charmed with John as he shook his hand. “Harriet’s brother, I presume?” His eyes raked over John’s body, and returned to staring at him approvingly. “She wasn’t kidding when she said her brother was a looker.”

 

John hid a small blush from his face. If he was going to try this, he shouldn’t be such a blushing virgin. He chuckled to clear his throat. “And, she wasn’t lying when she said you were quite the bloke.”

 

Terrence’s eyes glimmered. “I think we’re going to get along just fine, John Watson.”

 

“Oh, stop flirting, you blokes. Come and sit on the table. We’ve prepared some risotto!” Harry called out from the kitchen.

 

“It’s not like we aren’t flirting here in the kitchen,” he heard Clara’s voice pointedly dripping sarcasm in her tone. He and Terrence just laughed and sat beside each other on the table, idly making small talk. John found that he was enjoying his company. Maybe trying this wasn’t going to be so bad.

* * *

 

Dinner was successful. Well, maybe except for the roasted chicken. It wasn’t remotely salvageable. But, all in all, good company was shared, and John thought he could definitely work things out with Terrence. But, there’s still… _something_. He felt like there was still something lacking. He just didn’t know what.

 

“I’m sorry about the chicken, Terrence.” Harry said as she swallowed her last bit of risotto. “It was awful.”

 

“Well, Harry, it was..” Everyone looked at Terrence, daring him to say a compliment. He sighed at shook his head. “It really was horrible. Like you guys. You’re all horrible for ganging up on me. I wanted to make her feel at least a bit better.” Everyone cracked up.

 

Clara patted Terrence’s shoulder. “It’s okay. When Harry knows her fault, she doesn’t need any cheering up. She’ll do it on her own.”

 

“Well, aren’t you the expert on Harriet Watson?” Harry said as she leaned towards her wife and kissed her cheek.

 

“Well-versed, yes. I married her.” Clara was starting to dart towards Harry’s lips when John cleared his throat, thinking how uncomfortable this must seem to Terrence. They broke apart and chuckled.

 

“John, why don’t you show Terrence out? We’ve got to clear up the table.” Harry said as she stood up and started stacking the plates. Clara winked at John as she pushed both of them towards the door.

 

Once at the door, Terrence gave John a shy smile. “It really was nice meeting you, John. You were great.” He rubbed the nape of his neck unconsciously. “Did you want to kiss?”

 

Before he even knew it, “No” came out of John’s mouth almost immediately. He saw Terrence’s expression fall. John panicked and tried to make sense of his own answer. “You’re a great bloke, Terrence, and I would really like to try dating you, but… I don’t think.. It’s..” He was at a loss for words. “It’s me. I don’t think I’m quite there yet. While I enjoyed your company, I don’t think I’m ready to put myself out there yet. I’d, however, like to keep in touch with you. Maybe, in the future, we can try again.”

 

His answer seemed to satisfy Terrence because he immediately lit up. “That was what I sensed when I met you earlier. I thought you were worth the try, though.” He slipped his hand in his pockets, fishing out his wallet and giving a calling card to John. “I’ll always be available for someone as gorgeous as you.” Terrence gave him a naughty wink.

 

John just chuckled. “Goodbye, Terrence. Thank you for tonight. I’ll see you soon.”

 

Terrence walked out of the house. “Goodbye, John. Thank you.”

* * *

 

“So,” Harry started. She and Clara were looking expectantly at John.

 

John laughed, sounding as if he found both of them ridiculous. He wiped his face with his hand, before facing them both. “He was great. Terrence was great. He was perfect.”

 

“Go on,” There was a hint of mischievousness in Clara’s voice.

 

“You two.” John shook his head with a smile. “Look. It’s.. hard to find someone who will love you just like how the both of you love each other. That, right there,” –John pointed to the two of them-“is rare, and every step someone takes is a risk. Well, look at me.” He sighed, to add a dramatic flair to his speech. “Apart from Sherlock, I’ve only ever loved three people in my life. One of them leaves me and emotionally scars my child, the other, the only male at that, tells me I was boring and proceeds to have sex with my best friend. The third,” –John looks at Clara-“tells me she’s gay right when I was about to propose and goes off marrying my sister.”

 

“I still love you, you know.” Clara says in her defense while she smiled sweetly.

 

“I know. In a completely aromantic way. I’m your brother-in-law, you’re supposed to love me or at least fake-love me in a platonic way.”

 

Clara laughed. She brushed off the hair from her shoulder. “I was never really into you, you know.”

 

Harry burst out, laughing.

 

“I mean, you were this funny guy who knew how to move with the ladies and were an excellent fuck.” Harry grimaced at the thought of his brother’s sex life with her wife. Clara continued. “But, god, John. Sometimes, you don’t know when to be rough or to be soft. When I requested for a thorough fucking, you ended up giving me slow because ‘it was our anniversary’.” Clara pretended to be disgusted. “To hell with anniversaries! Harry fu-“

 

“Okay, now, shut up. I feel embarrassed and an utter failure. I am never going to be Three Continents Watson again.” John covered his face in mock-shame. But, he knew that Clara was just messing with him. They did have a good relationship then, even lasting for four years. However, he found that they were even better as friends. And, the whole thing with Harry happened. He didn’t hold any hard feelings about it, though.

 

“Do you want to stay, John?” Harry said as she looked at her brother, a tired smile on her face.

 

John looked at her for a moment, before shaking his head. “I think I can handle this. I’ll return Amy here in ten, and then Hamish and I will head home.”

 

“Things are going to get better, John. You know that.” Clara said as she stood and sat on Harry’s lap, latching their lips together and going for a chaste kiss. John took this opportunity to walk out and head towards the playhouse. Harry and Clara were total opposites, but they clicked. And, for all the years he has seen them together, John can testify that what they had was real, raw and pure. He wished the same for himself, but thought better. It was going to be hard finding someone like that, not when he himself isn’t even ready to love someone else but Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

 

After dropping Amy back to Harry’s house, He and Hamish headed home. It was quite late when they arrived home, so John assisted Hamish in his nightly routines so that the boy could get to bed faster. When he laid a soundly sleeping Hamish on their bed, he left the room and went to the living room to watch some crap telly. He still wasn’t feeling the qualms of sleepiness. That was when he heard a knock on his front door.

 

John was actually puzzled. Who visited people at this ungodly hour?

 

He got his answer when he opened the door. A rather strung out Sherlock was standing in front of him. He looked as good as always, except there were dark areas under his eyes and he looked thinner when he last saw him. Actually seeing the man again left John speechless. He wasn’t quite sure whether this was just a dream. Thankfully, the other man spoke up.

 

“John.” He said, making the syllable speak a thousand words that John couldn’t comprehend.

 

“Sherlock,” he said in reply. He observed the man before him, trying to analyze why the hell he was standing on John’s front porch at this time without letting his feelings cloud over things. Bloodshot eyes, rapid breath, feels uncomfortable, dilated pupils-

 

“John, have sex with me.” Before John completed his thought process, he was pushed back into the house with tremendous force. Sherlock closed the door abruptly, and proceeded to pin John to the nearby wall beside the coats hanger. He nudged his nose onto John’s neck. John grabbed a hold of his wrist to ask why the hell he was doing this when he spotted the rapid pulse underneath, the last piece to his deduction.

 

_High._

 

John, with the force he only used for stubborn men in the army, pushed Sherlock away from him. Sherlock ended up on the sofa, looking a bit disoriented.

 

“What the bloody hell was that for?” Sherlock glared at John. While high, he could still gather enough focus to glare at John.

 

John stared at him sternly. “You are high.”

 

“Thank you for stating the obvious, John. Brilliant deduction. Can we have sex now?”

 

John crossed his arms, trying to keep his patience. “What did you use?”

 

“That’s hardly relevant-“

 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was setting off multiple alarms in Sherlock’s system. “What. The. Fuck. Did. You. Use?”

 

Sherlock immediately shut down all incoming insults he had wanted to hurl at John before and answered obediently. “Cocaine.”

 

“Is this the first relapse?”

 

John heard Sherlock gulp. “This is the first relapse I’ve had ever since I stopped using.”

 

John let out an angry sigh, a sign of his patience running out. The man showed up on his porch at two in the morning strung out on cocaine. Strangely, the fact that Sherlock used before wasn’t much of a surprise to John. What caught him off guard was the idea that Sherlock had started using _again_. For a genius, Sherlock was pretty dumb. John smoothed his hands over his face, and stared through Sherlock.

 

“You are taking a shower, then sleeping there.” John pointed towards the sofa. “I will bring you clothes to wear.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, I didn’t come here to be cod-“

 

John stopped himself from charging towards the man. Maybe Sherlock forgot that he was once in the army. He cleared his throat. “You will do as I say because you are under my roof. It’s either you do as I say, or you get out of my house right now. Your choice.”

 

Sherlock stared at him for a few seconds, searching for any sign of teasing in his expression. Too bad John was too dead set on this. He silently stood up. “Where’s the bathroom?”

 

“First door opposite the bedroom,” He said, leading the way. He entered the bedroom as Sherlock reluctantly got in the shower. John tried to go through his closet silently, looking for loose and long shirts. He finally found a pair of blue pyjamas, but wasn’t quite sure if they would fit Sherlock. Well, the man wanted to stay, so he’d have to cope. He put it in front the bathroom door and went into the living room again.

 

The initial irritated mood he had when he found out that Sherlock was high slowly wore off as he waited for the man to finish his shower. A lot of things ran through his mind. First and foremost, John was happy because he had another chance to see Sherlock again, despite the chances he all but ruled out right after he found out he had a boyfriend. There was this slight fluttery feeling in his chest that wanted to burst because, for once, Sherlock decided to come back to him. There was also a hint of pride there. However, there was this large part of him that was still confused as to why Sherlock had relapsed. If he was doing a good job so far staying away from the drugs, why go back now? And, why go to John’s home? He could’ve rented any hotel room he wanted to hide away from his parents and the public. And, out of all the people he knew, why John? His thoughts were interrupted by the shy footsteps coming towards the living room. He looked up to see Sherlock, all ruffled and wet from the shower. John’s eyes followed the small trickle of water from his neck down to his collarbone. When John realized what he was doing, Sherlock already had a smug grin on his face. All it took was a glare from John for Sherlock’s grin to waver. The man sat at the other edge of the sofa, away from John.

 

John gave him a spare blanket from the closet and stood up to go to the bedroom. He was still quite mad and confused by Sherlock’s actions, but he wasn’t going to pry. Sherlock will tell him in due time. But, he hoped he would tell him soon.

 

“John, don’t go. Please.” He heard Sherlock whisper in the dark as he walked his first step towards the bedroom. There was something in John that stirred when Sherlock said “please”, so he stopped, turned around, and faced the lanky man. He really needed to eat more, John said in his mind unconsciously.

 

John just stood there, waiting for Sherlock to say whatever it was he wanted. Sherlock patted the other end of the sofa, encouraging John to take a seat. John took a seat wordlessly, and waited again.

 

“I was a junkie before,” Sherlock started. John could see him tracing unconscious circles on the sofa. “Everything was so boring. All the useless information was not helping my brain. I needed something to settle it down, to make things _not_ boring. Cocaine did it all for me. John, you understand the excruciating need to have that adrenaline rush.” And, John did. He knew how boring his life was before Sherlock.

 

Sherlock continued. “I maxed out my credits just to get cocaine. And, when I had no money left, I did some… _odd jobs_ to pay for my habit. I practically begged for it, John, because I knew I would have cocaine in the end. It made all things seem fine then.” They both winced at the mention of the scandal. “When debt towered over my head and I almost tried to kill myself, Jim Moriarty came and paid everything in full. When I first deduced him, I found him so interesting, John. He was like a swordfish in an aquarium of gold fish. He was dangerous, he was fun.” Sherlock’s voice, although steady, felt like there was some hidden emotion being obstinately buried in it. “I was wrapped around his finger for a while.”

 

Sherlock came a bit closer to John, and started to slide the quite short grey shirt John gave him off of his head. John’s eyes raked over his body, taking in everything. Good god, Sherlock was _gorgeous_. He was beautiful and breath-taking. John could spend hours just studying his body and worshipping it. But, what caught John’s attention more were the black, purple and yellow blossoms that adorned his pale skin. John looked at the bruises disapprovingly. That was when everything clicked into place. At the same time of his sudden realization, Sherlock continued his explanation. “I had not detected it at first, thinking it was just some kink, but Jim was very fond of violence. He used it in every way he can, especially with me. I was often the recipient of his violent attacks. These were what I often get.” Sherlock grabbed his shirt and immediately slid it back down, as if the action would bury the bruises he had. “I tried to run away from him numerous times, but John, no one whom Jim has an interest in can escape him. I ran away from him by going here, but he found me anyways.”

 

“And then I met you, John.” Sherlock raised his gaze and stared at John so intently that John even questioned why he wasn’t exploding to bits already. John held his breath at the intensity of his gaze. “You were boring at first, managing poorly a bookshop and having a son. But, when I looked closer, you were interesting. You were John Watson, a doctor and a soldier and a father all at once, with a psychosomatic limp and a strong moral ground, and yet is insane enough to tolerate my crazy antics. You were a captain who has seen the war, yet was not offended by what you saw. In any case, you craved it, John. You loved the excitement. You call me brilliant, John, but you are the one who’s truly brilliant.” Sherlock’s eyes were shining with something akin to pride, and John found himself sharing the sentiment. He didn’t know Sherlock thought these things about him. He was so sure he was just a boring civilian who was trying to get by with life. But, as Sherlock sees everything, he saw past John and knew all of these things. John felt noticed and special, even if Sherlock was a movie star who was probably just lying to him with words of honey. However, if he were to assess the situation, he surprisingly could say that what Sherlock was saying now was true. He exposed a great deal about himself to John.

 

Sherlock shyly brushed his arm. “You made me see things clearly. You made me want to be free and be the brilliant man you so want to believe of me. John, I.. I rarely feel these things, so you must understand that it is hard for me to verbalize these.” He looked away. “I finally told Jim that I wasn’t going to be his anymore. I thought he was going to go berserk, but he just grinned at me smugly and told me I was going to regret things. He’d make my life a living hell. The video was his first attack.” Sherlock sighed. John could see how the scandal had affected Sherlock. He could see how stressed he looked, how utterly panicked his eyes were, and if he uttered another word, he would just babble. So, John gently laid his hand on top of Sherlock’s. This made Sherlock stare at him in alarm. John caressed his soft skin in an attempt to calm him down.

 

“Sherlock, I’m still mad at you, but.. I understand.” John said, surprised at his own ability to summon his voice back. “I.. I understand now. Thank you for telling me. Really.”

 

Sherlock seemed to contemplate John’s words before he slowly leaned in, a question in his eyes. When John nodded, their lips met gently, as if there was still the shyness of the first time present. Sherlock opened his mouth and let John’s tongue in, tasting and exploring just as much as John is exploring his mouth. Sherlock placed his arms around John’s neck, pulling him down with him. It was explosive, yet lovely and gentle at the same time. John waited for Sherlock to catch up with him, prodding and chasing and just enjoying the feeling of having Sherlock’s heavenly mouth on his, with their limbs entangled.

 

John soon felt the excited tent in Sherlock’s bottoms. He raised a brow if Sherlock wanted to do anything further, but the actor shook his head. John was alright with his decision because right now, what mattered was Sherlock and him alone. If John needed to reassure Sherlock that he was a brilliant man, that he was the last man John would expect in his sofa at this ungodly hour, that he was capable of everything he wanted to be if he just believed in it, he would. He would do it a thousand times, even. Everything was about Sherlock tonight. He was the sun, and John was the planet circling him in some sort of worship. They stayed pressed up to each other for a few minutes, before John settled down beside the lanky man. It was surprising that his sofa could handle the two of them. But, since the sofa wasn’t accustomed to surprisingly tall human beings, Sherlock’s feet hung off the edge just a bit.

 

Sherlock slowly wrapped himself around John, giving John’s hand a long peck after he had finished doing so. The silence that filled them was comfortable and filled with warmth. It was a silence that told of their level of trust in each other. Sherlock slowly broke it by sighing deeply at first before muttering against John’s ear. “When the high finally stops and I find my mind crashing into excruciating pain, I play the violin. I compose. I let the music scream for me because I find that my body might not be able to contain such excessive purging.” He takes in a deep breath, almost as if taking in John’s scent and committing it to his memory. “My mind is large and expansive, and I don’t think I can let it all out with this hole humans have. The music makes it easier to contain and expulse. It makes it more beautiful.”

“Hey,” John whispered to him as he turned towards Sherlock. He held Sherlock’s face in his hands appraisingly, like a faithful worshipping his god. “None of that. You are beautiful. The mess in here” –he lightly taps Sherlock’s temples with a finger- “is beautiful. I can say that with confidence because I see you. I see, at this very moment, the physical body that your mind has sculpted and the ‘you’ beyond your physicality. You, Sherlock Holmes, are the most beautiful man I have ever met.”

Sherlock nuzzled his face onto John’s hands. He closed his eyes for a moment, comprehending and storing this moment. He never found anything intimate worth storing since Jim-before-the-violence. But, apparently, John broke through all Sherlock’s inhibitions. He was thankful for this man currently in his arms right now. He wanted to stay in this moment forever. “I’ll write a small symphony for you, John.” He whispered, his eyes glistening. “I shall tell you everything. I hope, for both our sakes, you'll understand.” He chuckled. He kissed John’s forehead. “Goodnight, John.”

John looked at Sherlock, trying to convey through his stare that he was safe here, that John would do everything to protect him, and that he could be vulnerable even for just one night around him. Sherlock raised the right corner of his mouth, resembling a smile, before shutting his eyes closed and falling asleep.

* * *

 

“What the hell?!” John was startled awake by Sherlock’s voice. He opened his eyes and rubbed them. He saw Hamish hitting Sherlock rather harshly on the back.

 

“What are you doing here, Mr. Sherlock? Why are you here? You hurt my dad!” Hamish continued to hit Sherlock with petty punches.

 

“Hamish, stop it.” He said groggily, pulling Sherlock closer to him and trying to shield his back from Hamish’s blows. “He needed somewhere safe to stay because the press are hunting for him.”

 

“What’s the press, daddy?” Hamish took to glaring at Sherlock and jumping on top of them. Sherlock groaned. John finally sat up, scooting to the edge of the sofa, and placing Hamish on his lap.

 

“They’re a bunch of people who want to know what all people’s business are. They do not care if you are hurt, they only care about telling other people’s secrets.”

 

“Really?” Hamish’s eyes widened. He looked so adorable. “They’re evil. Maybe that’s your punishment, Mr. Sherlock, for breaking the law before!”

 

“Hamish,” John said in a warning tone. That shut Hamish up. John got up from the sofa and stretched his limbs. “I’ll prepare some breakfast. You stay here with Mr. Sherlock and watch some cartoons.” That got a scream of delight from the toddler and a groan from the actor.

 

“John,” Sherlock whined. Chuckling to himself, John pulled Sherlock away from the sofa and into the kitchen.

 

“If you don’t want to be stuck watching cartoons with Hamish, you can help me prepare breakfast.” John said. Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. But, before he moved from his spot, he gave John a small peck on the forehead.

 

“I hope that was a proper good morning,” he grinned as he went to the cupboards.

 

“It-“ John was cut off by the ringing of the doorbell. He sighed as he went towards the door.

 

He was surprised by a sudden flash of lights when he opened the door.

 

There were cameras _everywhere_. The paparazzi had managed to tail Sherlock. Some were even shouting questions at him. John immediately closed the door in terror.

 

Sherlock popped his head from the kitchen and gave him a lopsided grin. “Who was that?” Before John could stop him, Sherlock headed towards the door and opened it. He was welcomed by the same sight John saw moments ago. Sherlock came back in, bewilderedly stared at John, and ran towards the sofa. He picked up his phone from the pocket of his pants from last night, and furiously talked to Mycroft (based on the shouting John heard). Sherlock slammed the door to the bathroom and got changed into last night’s clothes.

 

“Sherlock, calm down.” John said, trying helplessly to lighten the situation.

 

“Calm down, John? Calm down?” Sherlock raised his voice as he fixed his dress shoes. “The press are out there, with shots of us only in our pyjamas, and you want me to _calm the fuck down_? You’re insane, John Watson.”

 

“Look, I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I-“

 

“Oh, John. This would probably raise publicity for Hammersmith Books!” Sherlock walked dangerously close to John. “’I’ll probably get to sell more books now because I’ve kissed Sherlock Holmes and the press thinks I’ve screwed him!’ That’s what’s probably what you have got planned, am I right, John Watson? Buy a book from the man who managed to snag Sherlock Holmes from Jim Moriarty, everybody!” Sherlock’s voiced raised to shouting level as he mocked John. John clenched his fists in an attempt to hold his anger. He understood that Sherlock was under so much stress.

 

“We know that’s not true, Sherlock.”

 

“How the _fuck_ do I know what’s true, John? You’ve betrayed my trust and fed me to the wolves after I have told you everything I could!”

 

“Calm down, Sherlock!” He finally shouted. “Look. This scandal is just a one-time thing, a small part of the grand scheme of things. This scandal will not affect who you really are, if you refuse to let it define you. This situation is just something to laugh about in the future! Everything is fast-paced in the entertainment industry. They’re going to forget it, Sherlock, they will. Don’t worry.” He wanted to touch Sherlock, but he was afraid that would just set him off more.

 

Sherlock chuckled darkly as he slapped his forehead with his left palm. “Oh, John. You are an idiot. I clearly thought wrong when I said you were brilliant. How is it in your funny little brain, John? This story will be filed against me for the rest of my career, John. They will always remember.”

 

Apparently, Hamish heard the screaming and was now coming to them to figure out what was going on. “Dad, Mr. Sherlock-“

 

“Shut up, you stupid child, and go back to watching your cartoons!” Sherlock shouted, not facing Hamish. He was still staring at John venomously. “I will always regret this, John. I. Will. Forever. Regret. This.”

 

John stood there, shocked and hurt all the same. He walked slowly towards Hamish, lifted him up and patted his back unconsciously to comfort him from Sherlock’s verbal attack. “First, you don’t shout at my child, Sherlock. Second, even if you so vehemently pressed that I did this, I will never regret kissing you or letting you into my life, and I will always be glad that you came here, despite the hundreds of people who are better and more interesting than me.”

 

Sherlock was at a loss for words. He was, however, saved from reacting by his phone ringing. After a couple of ‘yes’, he opened the door and faced the paparazzi. John bowed his head and closed his eyes, slowly trying to swallow all the hurt and desperation he was currently feeling. He supposed he was to expect this. This was bound to happen sooner. From the beginning, John knew that falling in love with a movie star like Sherlock Holmes was going to end badly. He would always wound up the one hurt. However, he fell in love anyway. And, here he was, in ruins about a man who regretted being ever associated with him. John cherished every kiss, every touch, every moment he had with Sherlock, because he knew their rarity. But, he guessed his feelings weren’t returned. He felt like an absolute idiot for letting this happen. Sherlock was right. He really was an idiot. Why would he fall in love with someone like Sherlock, when he knew the first time he met him it was going to be the hardest thing he was going to ever do (and he invaded Afghanistan)? He tried to will the ache in his chest away as he comforted his Hamish, who was quite taken aback by what happened. For now, Hamish needed John a lot. He needed a father, not a man who’s selfishly falling in love and is just a provider to him.

 

Yes, that was right. He didn’t have to think of Sherlock anymore, because he made his feelings clear. He had to focus on his son, because above everything else, he was a father.

 

God, John was such a mess right now. Apparently, he was never going to be really enough for anyone. Heck, he felt like he wasn’t even enough for his son.

 

He had to move on. He had to be better.

 

He should forget Sherlock. He _should_.


	9. The Beginning of the End Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the last straw for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> small things to take into consideration:  
> 1.) Chapter 5: Instead of detective inspector, I'm putting Greg into detective sergeant. In this chapter, he becomes detective inspector. TIme flies fast in this universe.  
> 2.) Chapter 8: I've put a bit of extra in the part where Sherlock just finishes telling John about him and Moriarty. Quite a vital part to the last chapter, but it's just a small tidbit.
> 
> Had to cut this into two chapters because I had writer's block at the second part. Not going to say any excuses this time because my absence was too long. I'm really sorry to everyone who read this work. And, if you're still here, thank you for supporting this! Please do comment or review. It makes me happy to read them.
> 
> And, as the chapter's title says, this is the third to the last chapter for this fic.

Harry and the kids popped the three massive confetti poppers John bought.

 

“Congratulations, you big-hearted wanker!” Harry cried out in delight as she threw the remains of the confetti popper at Greg. “From sergeant to inspector, imagine that!”

 

Clara kissed Greg’s cheek and pulled it. “Our big hero!”

 

“Don’t go killing any people soon!” Greg yelled amidst all the noise in the room. John could only sigh and laugh as he watched the amok that was his family.

 

He had decided long ago that he would never give this family up. He drank the remains of his beer before crushing the can and throwing it aside.

 

“Alright, alright, you filthy beings! It’s time for food!” Harry shouted as she pushed everyone towards the table. Amy and Hamish yelled out a massive ‘Yes!’ at the top of their lungs as they raced to their seats. John immediately sat down beside Hamish.

 

“Before everything else, though,” Greg started, unsure and with just a bit of blush on his cheeks. “I’ve got something to announce.” He looked at John apologetically. John just stared at him, confused. What could Greg say that would make John mad? As far as John knew, Greg hadn’t done anything wrong.

 

“I’m seeing someone.” It was seconds before John’s brain managed to catch up with what Greg was saying.

 

“Mycroft?!” John cried out in shock. “You’re dating Mycroft Holmes?!”

 

“What, the one with Sherlock Holmes?” Clara said as she fed a spoonful of pudding to Amy. “The one with the great arse?”

 

“Precisely. And, mind you, he really does have an exquisite arse. You should see it without-“

 

“Kids, Greg!” Harry warned, although her strict resolve soon dissolved into a fit of giggles. She passed plates of food around.

 

John, however, was still in a state of shock. “I can’t believe this,” he said, raising his arms up in surrender. “You’ve been dating him all along. Why didn’t you tell me?” He wasn’t trying to be immature. He was just used to Greg telling him almost to everything in his life. They’ve been friends ever since university. This was the first secretive stint Greg did.

 

“Only been a month,” Greg sat down as he drank more wine. “We decided not to tell you for a number of reasons, really.” ‘We’? Mycroft must have known John was Greg’s confidant. “It’s primarily because of Mycroft’s job. Aside from being Sherlock’s manager, he’s… in the government. I’m in the force. It’s going to play out really bad if people started knowing. You know how I am.”

 

“So, this promotion..” John trailed off. He knew that Greg knew what he was implying. Greg almost threw the wine glass at him.

 

“Give me some credit, John!” He said exasperatedly. “I did my best, too! Well, gotta admit, the case Sherlock solved helped a great deal.” He plucked a piece of French fries from the dish. “We also figured that it might be hard on you since..” He affixed a stare at John. “Look. Mycroft’s told me what happened. And, with you looking so shitty for the past few months, it’s easy to tell that there’s some business here that we’d rather not add flame to.” Greg patted John’s shoulder. “You’ve got Hamish, bills, and your bookshop to think of. I didn’t want to burden you more.”

 

John flashed him a small smile. Of course he understood. The topic of Sherlock was still sore for him, to be honest. But, he got over him, or so John thinks. The past few months left him with fake smiles and pathetic efforts to be strong for Hamish. More customers came to Hammersmith Books, but that doesn’t mean the ‘more’ was consistent. There were days that John had to miss a meal just to have enough to feed Hamish. Things were better now, but John can’t say they didn’t have a hard time.

 

But, that doesn’t mean he has no room to be happy for anyone else.

 

John laughed. “That’s ridiculous, Greg.” He clasped his hands together, as if he were contemplating. “I am anything but fragile. You know that. You’ve seen that. I wouldn’t have enlisted for the army if I wasn’t.”

 

“I know, John. It’s just—“

 

“So, hearing you are happy with someone related to Sherlock isn’t going to break me down. Of course it’s going to make me happy. We’re mates.” He clapped Greg on the back. “You underestimate me.”

 

“Clearly, I did.” Greg had a huge grin on his face. “Welcome back, John. You’ve finally moved on.”

 

John shrugged with a smile on his face. Maybe he really had.

 

“Come now, gentlemen! I didn’t cook this food for nothing!” Harry said as she ate a handful of French fries. John sighed. Same old Harry.

 

And, maybe ‘same old’ was what mattered most. Not a changing and dangerous lifestyle. Never that.

* * *

 

 

Harry was drunk. Again. She promised she wouldn’t drink too much, but she did. Relapsed quite hard. Clara told John it was going to be alright since they’ve busted quite the savings on booze for Greg. They wouldn’t be getting any richer for her addiction quite soon.

 

John hoped that would keep Harry’s love for alcohol at bay.

 

Amy was put to sleep early on, and Hamish was taking a nap on the sofa. Everyone was full and tired and maybe somewhat drunk. John faintly heard Elton John crooning ‘Tiny Dancer’ into the night. It must Clara. She was fond of Elton John, even when they were still dating.

 

“So,” Greg said as he opened another bottle of beer as he sat beside John on a plastic chair. “You’ve moved on from Sherlock, right?”

 

“Yes.” John said confidently. “You even said so earlier.”

 

“S’right!” He bellowed happily. God, another adult almost drunk to his death. “Then, you would resist if I told you some gossip?”

 

John blinked at Greg, confused. “What gossip?”

 

“Oh, just, y’know.” Greg took another swig of his beer. “Mycroft told me Sherlock’s shooting a crime drama here for the rest of the week, starting tomorrow.”

 

John froze as he took in this information. Sherlock’s back in Hammersmith? And, he’s shooting a crime drama. He’s finally taken John’s advice then.

 

But, if he did listen to John, then maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s a signal from Sherlock that he wants to talk. Maybe, just maybe, they’d get to finally clear things up.

 

Oh, John Watson. You thought you’ve moved on.

 

But, he had decided earlier on that he wouldn’t chase Sherlock again. What the hell was his heart trying to say now? Hadn’t he had enough from how Sherlock treated him before?

 

 _Just one more chance_ , his subconscious said.

 

Just one more.

* * *

 

 

John found himself near The Blue Anchor the next morning. He knew this was a bad decision, but for the calm in his heart to settle, he had to do this. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. There were lots of people surrounding The Blue Anchor today, clearly wanting to see the handsome actor’s prowess. It’d be hard to get in. But, he’s got to try.

 

He approached one of the security guards near the entrance. “Hello.”

 

The security guards looked at him, bemused. One of them bowed his head a bit. “Good day, sir.”

 

“So,” John licked his bottom lip. “I was wondering if I could enter the establishment. I just wanted to talk to Sherlock.”

 

“Sherlock?” The other security guard said. “You mean Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, like everyone else, we can’t let you in, sir.”

 

“Not even for tea?” John had to try. He, of course, knew how ridiculous he sounded.

 

The guards shared an amused look. “No, sir.”

 

John just nodded at them and tried to look inside for Sherlock. Right by the veranda near the river, he found the man talking to what looked like a make-up artist, still looking as handsome and tall as he’d seen him. He looked better now. He looked.. lovely. He didn’t look like the man whom John took care of when he relapsed. John felt a pang in his chest. Here he was again, looking from afar.

 

Sherlock, as if sensing someone was staring at him, turned to John’s direction and stopped speaking. His eyes softened as he stared at him. John could do nothing but stare back.

 

He had to admit: he missed him.

 

It was moments before he realized Sherlock was walking towards him. “He’s with me,” he said swiftly to the guards as he continued to look at John, not even sparing them a glance.

 

Sherlock ushered John outside, towards an area with big vanity vans. John, however, could not focus on anything but the warm hand on the small of his back. He really missed Sherlock. However, he had to remember what he was here for. He needed to have closure. He needed to.

 

Sherlock opened a vanity van and stepped inside, with John in tow. It was massive inside, complete with a little bar and wall segments to separate where the make-up and the wardrobe was. There was also a sofa set and a flatscreen television on the wall that greeted them almost immediately after entering. The entire layout was minimalist and modern.

 

“Out, out, out!” Sherlock shouted as he sent the make-up artists scurrying outside. Then, there was no one left in the van but them.

 

There was the silence again. But, it wasn’t like the silence they usually had. It was uncomfortable and had a lot of pent-up pressure.

 

“Sherlock—“ as soon as John started to break the silence, he was slammed onto the wall segment keeping the make-up and common room apart and was attacked by familiar soft lips. This kiss was aggressive, like the pressure that built up between them crashing into them. John tried to push him away, but Sherlock just kept on chasing his lips. In this moment, he felt all the unspoken feelings the lanky man had. However, it didn’t make any sense. Didn’t Sherlock regret their dalliance then?

 

All too soon, the kiss ended. Sherlock slowly put distance between them, panting and disheveled. He looked like a lust bombshell.

 

“John,” Sherlock hesitated to say anything next, but decided to just continue. “We’ll talk later. I’m in for a shoot in five minutes. I’ll let Mycroft leave you to sounds so you can watch us.”

 

John, still at a daze from their kiss, said something else instead of saying what he initially went here for. “You finally went for a crime drama.”

 

Sherlock paused. “Yes,” he smiled a bit smugly. “I’m also discussing the plot with the director and the scriptwriter. They appreciate it. I’ll see you later.” Before John could say anything in reply, Sherlock had already left the vanity van.

 

Not even five minutes later, Mycroft emerged from the vanity’ van’s entrance. “I’m to take you to Sounds.” He said drily. John followed him without question to an enclosed space beside the pub. There were stereos, controllers, and other apparatus he didn’t know the name of. Mycroft talked in hushed voices with the sound engineer, and left the area.

 

“Here you go, Mr. Watson. Enjoy the show.” The sound engineer said, giving John headphones. He put it on, and looked at the scene inside the pub. It looked like the scene itself wasn’t ready, which was a shame because it cut his time with Sherlock.

 

That was how John knew he was in this too deep. Well, that’s a topic they can discuss later. There was another man with Sherlock. He had ragged clothes on, the rips and tears showing the actor’s well-endowed body. He had a thin dusting of brown for his beard. John focused on the voices he heard from his headphones.

 

“Do not ruin this, Sebastian.” He heard Sherlock’s stern voice say.

 

A close-to-bass voice, whom John assumed as ‘Sebastian’, chuckled before replying. “Like how I’ve fucked Jim?” Sherlock’s expression turned grim. Fucked Jim? Who the hell was this ‘Sebastian’? He’d have to ask Sherlock later.“Yeah, yeah. The director’s put his trust in your plot and you don’t want this whole series cancelled. Got it.” John watched as Sebastian leaned on the veranda. “So, saw you’ve got hot stuff back onboard. Thought you lay off on him a few months ago. You’ve caused quite a scandal.”

 

Sherlock turned away from him with disgust on his face. “I did.” He sighed dramatically. “I’m just tying loose ends and ending dirty business from the past. He’s annoying, actually.”

 

To say that John was shocked was an understatement. He felt a lot of things all at once. But, most of all, he felt tired and dejected. Apparently, his brain was right after all. There was no use chasing after a man he thought he could hold even for just a night. He knew this was coming sooner or later. He was pathetic. He had fallen in love with a man who would need a miracle to love him back. He had fallen in love with someone he knew, from the very start, would hurt him. Well, Sherlock flashed ‘danger’ from the very start yet John came running. The kiss earlier might have been Sherlock’s plan to string him along again. However, this time, he really was going to walk away. This was the final straw. He wasn’t going to continue this any longer.

 

He shouldn’t have come here in the first place.

 

He removed the headphones, gave it back to the sound engineer and thanked him, before walking away from all of this, from Sherlock Holmes.

 

He wasn’t worth it anymore.

* * *

 

 

John, while waiting for Hamish’s school to end, went to the supermarket to buy their food and essentials to cool himself off. He figured that by wrapping his thoughts around their survival, he’d cool down and be depressed later on. However, it turned out to be a bad idea because he just ended up shouting at the chip and pin machine again and knocking down melons. And, unluckily, the limp came back. Luckily, the shop manager let him off because of it.

 

All the more things to add to his list of characteristics that make him pathetic.

 

He took home the groceries first. Out of habit, he pulled his gun out from its safe place and put it inside his holster. Then, he set off to Hamish’s school.

 

However, Hamish wasn’t at school anymore.

 

“Come again?” John said incredulously. The teacher was shaking in nervousness as she looked at John.

 

“So, you mean, you weren’t caught in an accident?”

 

“What accident?” John was puzzled. Where the hell was Hamish? What excuse was his teacher saying?

 

The teacher almost paled in shock. “Earlier, there was someone here who fetched him, said he was your friend.” She chewed on her lip. “He said you were caught in an accident, and he was going to get Hamish to the hospital to wait for you.”

 

John knew it. Hamish was kidnapped. But, why? Who the hell would target him? He wasn’t known enough in the area to be targeted. Right at that moment, he received a text message.

 

                               _Come to where The Grampians used to be, Dr. Watson. It’s abandoned._

_I really look forward to meeting you again._

_JM_

 

And then, John knew. He broke into a sprint, catching the first taxi he could find.

* * *

 

John reached the location, shocked at the number of homeless people surrounding the building. Some grinned at him smugly while some shook in silence. The people here were probably junkies, too. He cringed as he remembered Sherlock once again. No. This was not about Sherlock. This was about Hamish this time. He entered the building, and saw nothing. No one was inside the building. He kept a hand on the holster of his gun.

 

“Hey,” a voice greeted. The voice was directly behind him.

 

John turned around, but he was too late. He was hit by the butt of the gun the man held. John immediately fell unconscious.


	10. The Beginning of the End Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the last straw for John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to the last chapter. Keep the comments coming! If anyone's interested, you can contact me through my tumblr: http://lessthanimprobable.tumblr.com

John woke up when he felt something cold on his face. It soon dripped to his body. _Is that water?_ He moved his arms, only to find that they were tied up. His legs were tied up as well. His mouth was also gagged with what looked like golden underwear. Gross.

 

He slowly opened his eyes. There, right in front of him, was Jim Moriarty. He spotted Hamish behind him, tied up to a post. He was crying with a gag in his mouth. John glared at Jim.

 

“Oh, none of that.” Jim chuckled. “He’s not going free just yet. Do you know how” – Jim’s smile slipped from his face, quickly forming into a frown – “stressful it is when you have a child? If you’re a weakness, then your child is, too! Such nuisance.” He heaved a sigh before plastering his delighted grin once again. God, this man was terrifying. The speed at which he can change his feelings is alarming.

 

“Well, Dr. Watson, today, you and your son are bait for Sherlock.” Jim said as he went towards Hamish and patted his head. John growled in reply. “You see, John, this is the finale of the torture. This is the last step to his ruin. Now that he has given his heart to you, it’s going to crush him if I kill you.” He walked towards John and crouched as he hovered. “I couldn’t care less if I killed you, though. Maybe I’d give Antonio a good car and a new identity, then he can decapitate you and use your remains for my fish food.” He tilted his head thoughtfully and stood up. “I have a proposition, John. If you agree to come out and shoot Sherlock Holmes, I’ll let go of Hamish. Of course, I have to see you do the job first before your son’s free. Don’t worry, I’ll make all charges disappear. I’m good at that.”

 

John let out a sound of retaliation. Of course he won’t shoot Sherlock! He wouldn’t kill him, even if he were just a stranger. He had done enough shooting when he was in Afghanistan.

 

“Oh, John.” Jim crouched down again, pulling away the tails of John’s shirt and removing his gun from its holster. John struggled to remove Jim’s hands on him to no avail. Jim removed the gag from John’s mouth. The smaller man stood up, playing with the gun. “Oh, John the army hero, the man who has fallen in too deep. He thinks Sherlock Holmes is going to fall for him someday and he risks everything for him. Oh, John Watson, who hasn’t a care for his child who’s going to be killed later in this game—“

 

“What I decide to do isn’t any of your business,” John said, trying to control his anger. Jim Moriarty was mocking him. He was only mocking him to get him to agree.

 

Jim laughed. “Oh, the foolish man,” He slowly raised his arm to point the gun at Hamish. “Then, it also isn’t any of your business if I shoot _him_.”

 

John looked at Hamish, who was crying, his sobs getting louder and louder. He was scared and hopeless as he gaped at Jim. He looked like he was ready to just die. Hamish switched his gaze from Jim to John. John felt a stab in the heart: Hamish was practically begging him to save him. He couldn’t believe he was doing this to Hamish again. He couldn’t believe he had put his son in this position. He opted to glower at Jim because he couldn’t look at that terrified expression again. He just couldn’t.

 

Hamish didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve any of this.

 

“Yes,” John said faintly. “I’ll shoot him. Let Hamish go.”

 

Jim grinned. “Glad we have an understanding. Seb, untie him. Wonderboy’s almost here.” 

* * *

 

 

John heard all too soon when Sherlock arrived. He was hidden behind the stack of dirty barrels a good distance in front of Jim. He turned so that he could see the scene unfold.

 

“Where’s John?” He heard. Sherlock’s voice was frantic, shaken, but not without pride. Of course, Sherlock would never lose his confidence in any situation. John giggled silently to himself.

 

“Not going to great me, Sherlock? Quite rude, don’t you think?” Jim smiled grimly.

 

“You’re used to it by now. No use in changing that.”

 

Jim sighed. “Such a stubborn man you are. This is why you get caught up in debts, Sherlock.” He clucked his tongue as he walked closer to Sherlock. “You’re too addicted to know when the limit is.”

 

John just heard Sherlock grunt in reply. “Oh, Jim. Spare me from your theatrics. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

 

“Straight to business, then.” Jim said as he cocked the gun and pointed it at Sherlock. “This is the last piece to my masterpiece, Sherlock. It’s all about you tonight.” John heard him chuckle. “I just need you to fall from this building and die, wonderboy.”

 

“Guns, Jim? Not exactly creative.” Sherlock countered, producing his own gun from his coat. He pointed it at Jim. “What’s in it for you if I die? It’s not exactly humiliating, Jim. I know you. You don’t make things easy.”

 

“You’re right. I don’t.” With his other hand, Jim pulled his phone out from his pocket and pressed on the screen. “So, the press is going to make it exciting for us. You’re going to die in front of international TV! They’ve known you for so long as the ‘actor who fucked everyone to get to where he is’ and now he decides to die! That makes an interesting story! Isn’t that exciting?” The delight in Jim’s voice wasn’t acting; it was pure glee. He got off on this. It made John sick. “And, to reinforce your decision, I’ve got both of them.”

 

“Both of them?” Sherlock said in confusion. This was John’s cue to come out. He stepped out from his hiding spot and pointed the gun at Sherlock. His face twisted, hinting a bit of shock, but it soon turned blank.

 

“Dad!” Sebastian came out with Hamish, the little boy’s arms held by the big man behind him. Hamish was crying and sobbing. John was afraid he’d have trouble breathing later.  “Please, stop! Don’t kill Mister Sherlock, please! Don’t do this! Let us go!” He yelled hopelessly.

 

Jim ignored him. “You know your John darling won’t hesitate to kill you if it means saving his son. We’ve come to that understanding earlier.” The elvish man spared a glance at him before focusing it back on Sherlock. “Two guns pointing at you, with a little boy’s life on the line. Who’s going to lose their life tonight?”

 

Sherlock stared at Jim, and whatever he found there made him walk towards the ledge. The crowd below got noisier. He extended both his arms as he got ready to fall. “Let them go, Jim. Promise me.”

 

“I keep my word.” Jim grinned slyly. John had a bad feeling about this.

 

“Please!” Hamish interjected. He was practically begging. He also struggled from Sebastian, but the man was too strong for him. “Please! Don’t do this! Don’t kill us! Please, Mister! Please!”

 

Jim turned his head towards Hamish’s direction. “Oh, mother of - keep him quiet, Seb! That fucking son of a bitch is annoying me!”

 

Sebastian sneaked a hand to his pocket and pulled out a gun. He hit Hamish with the butt of his gun. Hamish slumped down unconscious. That was the moment John saw red. He pointed the gun towards Sebastian and shot his chest, not thinking about whether he hit the heart or not. Sebastian went down, but not without managing to shoot John on the arm. John groaned painfully, however, he still had energy to pull Sherlock from the ledge and throw him down. He pointed the gun towards Moriarty as he walked over to where Hamish was. The actor’s nonchalant mask slipped from his face and an indescribable fury replaced it. He immediately shot at John and Hamish continuously. Good thing he wasn’t as skilled as John initially thought he’d be. He’d managed to dodge all of them. He pointed his gun at Jim this time.

 

“This fucking ends now, Jim. I’ve had enough,” he said, anger slowly containing itself in his hand. In contrast to what others feel, the anger didn’t make John unruly and disorganized when it came to shooting. Anger made him a crackshot. That was what the other soldiers counted on in Afghanistan. Sherlock crawled towards John and stood up, pointing his own gun at him.

 

“You’re right. This ends now.” Jim laughed and snapped his fingers. Soon, about five to seven lasers were pointed at him and Hamish. John glanced at Sherlock with shock. Snipers? God, Jim had snipers? Now, there was no way out. The lunatic looked at Sherlock and pouted. “Shame you’ve become so boring, Sherlock. You’ve found yourself an angel and now, you’re becoming one of them, too.”

 

“That’s where you’re wrong, Jim. That’s where you’re very, very wrong.” Sherlock smirked. How the hell could he smirk at a time like this? “I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.” He walked towards Jim with stride, pointing his gun directly at the other’s forehead.

 

“Ah,” Jim sniffed in disgust. “Using me as bait. Not your cleverest tactic, Sherlock. But, good luck with that.” He pulled Sherlock when he was within reach, opened his mouth, put his gun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Sherlock let out a surprised yelp as the man dropped dead on the floor, guts spilling out. But, the lasers were still on them. John met Sherlock’s eyes, communicating that the snipers will not stand down unless Sherlock jumped. The lanky actor looked panicky. John’s hopes of all of them surviving were getting dampened and dampened by the second. He didn’t want to lose Sherlock, but he certainly didn’t want to lose Hamish, either. Then, Sherlock’s face was wiped of its deliria and was replaced instead by a blank look. He dropped his gun, and walked over to the ledge.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock, don’t!” John shouted over the commotion. Sherlock turned his face towards the two of them.

 

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock was barely audible. John ran towards him and pulled him back.

 

“What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t die!”

 

Sherlock pushed John away rather forcibly. “Don’t you get it? If I don’t jump, You and Hamish are going to die. I’m not going to do that to you.” He took a glimpse at Hamish. “And certainly not to him.”

 

“Are you out of your mind? We can make a way around this. We can bend Jim’s rules. We can—“

 

“We can’t, John.” The amount of hopelessness in Sherlock’s voice made the remains of John’s hope turn to ash. “We can’t. I know Jim. I know him. It has to happen.” Those beautiful eyes locked onto John. Somehow, this was Sherlock’s way of telling John everything. He could feel the actor’s sincerity, gratitude, and that unspoken feeling between them. The lanky man stepped onto the ledge and extended his arms, just as he did before, and this time, John couldn’t do anything to hold him back.

 

All the lasers disappeared at that moment.

 

The doors to the rooftop opened, and SWAT teams and medics swarmed in. John immediately pulled Sherlock back from the ledge and dropped to the floor as he watched the medics take his son onto a stretcher and put an oxygen mask on his face. The flurry of activity blurred out from John’s vision as he tried to ingrain to his mind that they all survived without anyone dying. Memories of the war, of the dead soldiers and civilians had started to resurface into John’s consciousness from the depths of his unconscious. He tried to push it all back in, but he couldn’t. The memories meshed together and wove an entirely new scene. This time, it was Sherlock and Hamish’s bodies lying around with bullets swiftly buried in them. Jim was cackling uncontrollably. Sherlock was reaching out to him with all the life he had left, calling his name as his breath continued to rush out of him.

 

“John!” He was shaken violently off of his breakdown by a hand on his shoulder. John looked up to Sherlock, who was alive and well and words just couldn’t describe how relieved he really was. He grabbed the actor and crushed him into his arms.

 

“John, you’re shaking. Look, we’re alive. We’re fine. Hamish is alive, just unconscious. It’s over. It’s done. Jim’s dead.” Sherlock said comfortingly as he rubbed John’s back. John didn’t realize he was shaking. He slowly let go of him.

 

And, that’s when it hit him.

 

He had endangered Hamish. He had exposed Hamish to this kind of lifestyle. This was far from what he and Mary envisioned for their son.

 

He had robbed Hamish of his opportunity to live like a normal boy. He put him in danger.

 

He looked at Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t really do anything wrong. But, danger came with Sherlock. It was always around him. Jim might have been the most extreme, but there was always the media. What other dangers will it bring to them?

 

He can’t do this anymore. No matter how much he fell in love with Sherlock, he’d have to stop this now. He wasn’t going to put Hamish in danger ever again. He was going to make his life normal as much as he can possibly do.

 

Sherlock sensed that there was something wrong.

 

“John—“ He tried to reach out, but John bolted towards the door and followed Hamish’s stretcher. He fought the medics and, in the end, he let them ride in the ambulance that took Hamish to the hospital. He watched as Sherlock tried to catch him but he was stopped by Mycroft. Huh. He must have been the one who stopped the snipers and sent the clean-up team.

 

The ambulance sailed into the night. It took him, it took them away from Sherlock. Hopefully, they’d never get to see him again.

 

 _This is for the best_ , John thought.

 


	11. A Promise to the Little Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles to make things right with Hamish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially, this fanfic was supposed to be 11 chapters long. However, I saw how things were between Hamish and Sherlock and decided to clarify where they stood. Enjoy this small bit before the last chapter! By the way, this was the Winnie the Pooh quote Hamish was referring to: http://www.winniethepoohquotes.org/love-is-taking-a-few-steps-backward-maybe-even-more-to-give-way-to-the-happiness-of-the-person-you-love/
> 
> Comments are highly appreciated! (They make me go crazy and melt into a pile of sweet goo)

It had taken Sherlock a great deal of effort and planning to catch Hamish awake without John guarding him. He had to “owe” Mycroft another favor just to create some excuse for John to step out for at least thirty minutes. He knocked on the door of Hamish’s room.

 

“Who’s there?” Hamish’s high-pitched voice crooned. Not even twenty four hours into his encounter with Jim and the child was already chipper.

 

“It’s Sherlock. May I come in?”

 

There was a pregnant pause. “Sure.” At Hamish’s go signal, he opened the door and assessed the boy. No major injuries, just slight bruising on his wrists from being tied up. Sherlock looked at the chart on the table near Hamish’s bed. He had a slight concussion, but judging from the child’s demeanor, he had gotten over that. Sherlock raised his eyes to meet Hamish’s. The boy was pouting at him.

 

Sherlock took the seat beside the bed, presumably occupied by John earlier. “Hello.”

 

“Hello, Mister Sherlock.” He greeted back, although he couldn’t hide his snarky tone.

 

“I am asking you now not tell your father about this encounter. I’ve” - the lanky man searched for the right words – “gone to great lengths just to have this opportunity to talk to you.”

 

Hamish glared at him. “Okay. Talk now, Mister Sherlock.” He raised his chin in an attempt to look more dominant in the situation. That was.. very cute of him, Sherlock must say.

 

“I want to apologize for what had happened yesterday, with Jim Moriarty.” Sherlock bit his lip. He really was sincere in this. A child such as he do not deserve to be put in a situation like that. He had enough danger for a lifetime. “I promise I didn’t mean for you and John to get involved. I thought Jim only wanted me.”

 

Hamish, thankfully, didn’t cross his arms. He was still willing to listen. Good.

 

Sherlock moved a little closer to the boy. “I promise you, I won’t ever do anything to endanger you and John. I give you my word that I will do anything to always be there to protect you both.” He took a deep breath. He wasn’t good with talking about feelings, but he tried. And, for Hamish and John, he’d try his hardest. “I know we don’t exactly get along too well, but never doubt that I.. that I treat you as something close to a child of my own.” The words came out awkward, but nonetheless, he hoped Hamish could understand. “I’m sorry, Hamish. But, I shall always try to make amends, even if it takes a lifetime.”

 

Hamish looked blankly at Sherlock for a second, before burrowing himself into his pillows. The large pillows made him look small. “You know, daddy loves you. A lot.” He took to playing with the edge of his blanket. “I see him light up like that light thing in the cartoons when he sees you in the papers.” The boy looked up drearily to meet Sherlock’s eyes.  “And, I see him become very sad when you leave for a couple of months and don’t come back.”

 

“Hamish, I—“

 

“Please let me finish, Mister Sherlock.” Hamish held up a hand to stop Sherlock from speaking. Sherlock backed down, allowing him to continue. “I love daddy, and if daddy loves you, then I love you, too.” The little boy’s fist was curled up tightly. He was trying to hold back tears. “But, you don’t get to hurt daddy again, okay? I know Mister Sherlock loves daddy, too. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have tried to kill yourself for him.” He turned to face Sherlock. “An-And in Winnie the Pooh, it says that if you love a person, you step away to give room to the happiness of the person you love. “ Hamish touched his hand tentatively, seeking permission. Sherlock lifted the corner of his mouth to indicate his permission. The kid took his right hand in both of his little hands. “Please don’t hurt daddy anymore. If you really love him, you won’t make him sad. Promise me, Mister Sherlock, that you’re going to make daddy happy from here on. Please don’t be like mummy. Make him very, very happy, okay?”

 

Sherlock was hit by the tremendous amount of love Hamish had for his father. He, along with everyone else, underestimated a child’s capacity to comprehend and love. It moved him. Having been the one maintaining the strong front and facing the challenges to their survival, he was glad that John had Hamish, who loved and understood him more than he knew. He closed his right hand around Hamish’s hands and squeezed it. When the little boy looked at him, Sherlock flashed him a small smile, lifting a corner of his mouth. John was not alone. He had Hamish. Hamish was his very loyal knight who would fight for him until the end. And, both of them made an unstoppable pair.

 

He wanted to promise him that he would. He would do his best to do just what Hamish had instructed. “But, Hamish, the decision is up to him. I promise you I will try my best to make him happy, but I cannot do that if he doesn’t want me to.” He loosened his hold on him. It was John’s decision after all. Sherlock will do everything for him, but the ball was in John’s court.

 

Hamish pursed his lips. “Then ask daddy. Ask him if he will let you make him happy. Just, just, just remember your promise to me, okay?”

 

Sherlock raised both corners of his mouth. “I promise.”


	12. A New Beginning Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where Notting Hill's famous line is inserted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO EXIST. This was supposed to be the first part of the final chapter. However, I couldn't resist splitting it. I am terribly depressed today, and I needed an outlet. I figured I'd update this as much as I can. A thousand words is long enough for a chapter, so I added this in. God knows how much words I could've put in if I hadn't broken this off. I also didn't edit this one, so kindly point out any mistakes or any odd things you feel in this chapter.
> 
> Anyway, I appreciate all the comments and kudos! Thank you so much for staying! Kudos to everyone who made BBC Sherlock possible (you know the drill)!

It had only been a few days since Hamish was released from the hospital. His bills were miraculously covered already, and John only had to bring his son home. He had to admit: after the first few hours, he had mollycoddled Hamish too much. John made sure that Hamish’s every move is tracked within his line of sight. Soon, the boy complained, saying that “Mr. Moriarty was dead” and he “probably wasn’t going to come back to haunt them”. At such a young age, Hamish could already stomach brutal death and cadavers pretty well. John wasn’t sure Sherlock was being a good or bad influence to the child.

 

 

John sighed. _I thought we went over this already. No more thinking about Sherlock Holmes, his curly black mop, his cupid bow lips-_

 

 

He wasn’t good at this moving on thing. But, he made his decision. He had to try really, really hard. After all, this was for Hamish’s sake.

 

 

So, in an attempt to keep his life mundane from then on, he opened the shop, sat on the front desk, and began calculating their budget for next month. He would probably need to cut back on his food, but that was no issue. This was what he was used to. This was normal. This was safe.

 

 

Hamish was given the go signal to go back to school, so there wasn’t a little critter helping him out. John had to admit he missed having alone time with his son. Everything turned upside down when he met Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

He really had to stop thinking about the actor.

 

 

Just as he was dissuading himself from thoughts of fine cut cheekbones and gorgeously sculpted body, he heard the front door open. He sighed as he moved towards the door. The visitor was lucky because John was making an effort to greet him. He took a deep breath, twitched the corners of his mouth as high as he could, and spoke. “Good morning, welcome to-“

 

 

“John.”

 

 

John froze. Standing in front of him, not even a week after swearing he will never see him again, stood Sherlock Holmes in all of his glory. He looked well for someone who almost took his life. However, no one could forget to notice those dark circles under his eyes, endeavouring to swallow his entire eye ball. John clenched his fist to refrain himself from touching the lanky man and pursed his lips.

 

 

“Sherlock.” He said back, maintaining eye contact. He could never avert his gaze from those almost transparent eyes. They were simply too beautiful. _I won’t be able to stare at these later on_ , John thought sadly.

 

 

The taller man fidgeted, which was quite rare. Sherlock would always be full of confidence wherever he went and whatever he did. The fidgeting made John concerned.

 

 

However, before John could voice out his thoughts, Sherlock interrupted. “John, I would like to apologize to you for the past few months. I have unwittingly dragged you into the dangers I involved myself in. That is unfair for both you and Hamish. If only Mycroft and Lestrade got there in time, I do not think it would have come to that.”

 

 

The sincerity in Sherlock’s eyes made him look down. He couldn’t feel anything for this man right now. “Sherlock, don’t worry. I understand that none of this is your fault. It certainly isn’t your fault if you chose to fall in love with a psychopath.” John winced internally at his words. Yes, that was exactly what Jim Moriarty was. An obsessive psychopath. Just remembering those lifeless eyes looking at him made him cringe.

 

 

Sherlock bit his lip. “John, I am.. deeply sorry. I don’t—for once, I didn’t expect he would involve you. You and Hamish are… important, and I’d like to make it up to you. I’d spend all of my days making it up to you—“

 

 

John interrupted him almost immediately. He held up his hand as he spoke. “Sherlock, I’m not going to keep on seeing you. Not tomorrow, not next week or next year, not ever.” He saw the man freeze. He felt a bit guilty, but he had to go on. “Sherlock, you are a brilliant and gorgeous man with a ton of people worshipping you. You don’t need me. I can’t.. I can’t live in your world, Sherlock.” He sighed. This was the moment of truth. This was the beginning of John and Sherlock’s end, the inevitable conclusion to their almost story. John tried hard not to let the creeping sadness and heartbreak show on his face. He kept his face straight and stoic as he continued on. “There’s just too much. You’re up there, above in the clouds, while Hamish and I are here in the slums. And, it’s not just that. Hamish has been put on so many hurtful situations, be it physical or emotional, and I don’t want that to happen again. I’ve already scarred him once by breaking our family. I won’t do it again. So, Sherlock, if not for me, please. At least for Hamish. Do it for him. Stay away from us. We can’t be together, and that’s a reality we’re just going to have to live with.” He panted a little as he finished. The overwhelming emotion inside him was forcibly trying to make its way out, but John had to put a lid on it or else he might just give in to this strange man, to this man he had grown to love over the past few months, even with little contact.

 

 

Love?

 

 

 _Oh, John._ How stupid of him to fall for someone who was never going to love him back as much as he did. How nonsensical it was to fall in love with someone who thought you would never be enough. _Watson, stand firm, and walk along. Move on_ , he coached himself.

 

 

“John,” he heard Sherlock whisper. He froze. The actor opened his mouth a handful of times, but closed it once again. He bit his lip twice before he finally made up his mind about what he was going to say. “John, you fail to comprehend that despite my.. status in the outside world, I am just Sherlock Holmes. I loathe to admit it, but I am simply.. a man.” John didn’t know why Sherlock Holmes, actor and winner of a BAFTA, was acting nervous around him. He was, for the lack of a better word, terrified. What happened to Sherlock to cause him to be this way?

 

 

 _You know the answer, John. You’re just not ready to admit it to yourself,_ his internal monologue happily plugged in.

 

 

_Shut up._

 

 

Sherlock started manically pacing around the tiny space he was confined in near the entrance. “John, y-you see but you fail to observe again. Why are you being an idiot, the world is full of idiots, I don’t know why you prefer to act-“

 

 

“Sherlock.” John interjected. “Cut the chase. I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”

 

 

The actor stopped, turned his back on John, heaved a deep sigh, and turned back around. There was an odd fleeting feeling in his eyes, similar to…agony? Sadness? Pain? John can never know. Sometimes, John thought he knew the man, but when he left him for a couple of months, John wasn’t just so sure anymore. He wished they could go back to the days when things weren’t as complicated, where they were just Sherlock and John, two men delighting in the company of each other.

 

 

_You miss him._

 

 

_You aren’t needed right now, internal monologue._

 

 

 

“John, what I’m trying to say is..” Sherlock combed a hand through his hair. He spotted his fingers pulling on the loose curls. His shoulders deflated. John knew Sherlock was starting to become vulnerable. He was opening up, but he was afraid. Why was he afraid?

 

 

“Beyond all these layers of cashmere, silk and reformed gold, I am, after all, just a man,” -Sherlock took a step forward- “standing in front of another man,” – another step- “asking him to love him.”

 

 

John couldn’t move. He wanted to repeat again and again what Sherlock had said just to clarify what he meant. Did that mean Sherlock was in love with him? He lifted his eyes to gaze at those vulnerable flecked irises. And, right then, he knew. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t lying. He knew those were the most sincere words he could ever get out of Sherlock. He knew he was special to have this brilliant man step down from where John put him on a pedestal and do whatever he could just to keep his attention.

 

 

Sherlock loved him back.

 

 

This was the one possibility that John would ignore at all costs.

 

 

Before he could respond, though, Sherlock gave a bitter chuckle. “But, you’ve made yourself very clear. I respect you, and all of what you want. I gave Hamish my word, and I will give you mine, too.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a black USB stick. He reached out and pulled John’s pliant hand. He forced his palm to open, and dropped it at the center. “This is my last vow, and I intend to fulfill it.” John felt Sherlock linger a bit at their skin to skin contact before he let go. Loathe to admit it, John wanted Sherlock to hold his hand a bit longer.

 

 

Sherlock gave one last sad smile to John, turned, and exited the shop, his coat billowing and covering the pieces of his heart.

 

 

Those pieces were the only shrapnel John couldn’t keep.


	13. A New Beginning Pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's resolve is destroyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I cheated. I said this chapter was going to be the final one. Guess not. I wanted to post something before I go to class. No edits whatsoever because I am really rushing this (I really wanted to post).
> 
> Enjoy, comment/review, leave kudos! Thanks to BBC for Sherlock (you know the drill)! 
> 
> Commenters are given free hugs! (As if that would entice people)

John rarely told his feelings. He was not the sort to tell anybody his feelings. He preferred to sort them himself. But, this was a matter that needed consultation.

 

 

“So, what do you think? Did I, perhaps, make the right decision? For once?” He asked his audience, which consisted of Harry and Clara. Harry was on her way to work, but said she would  be there for her little brother’s dilemma. He had called Greg, but he still had to wrap up some papers from past cases. It was a weekend, and he knew Hamish always slept in during the weekends, so he wasn’t afraid of waking his son up. This was going to be a fairly peaceful affair.

 

 

Harry pursed her lips. “Well, given the amount of danger he’s put you and my nephew in, I think it’s right choice.” She crossed her arms. “I don’t exactly think you’re cut for the ‘man dating a celebrity’ type, John. “

 

 

Clara slapped Harry’s arm playfully. “Hey, none of that. He’s Three Continents Watson for a reason.” She turned to John and smiled softly. “If it’s for Hamish, I think you’ve made the best decision you could. But, John, are you sure? Are you happy? Have you even asked Hamish whether he was okay with this? Sherlock has also affected him a lot.”

 

 

John heaved a deep sigh. There was that. But, he couldn’t endanger Hamish any further. Sherlock was going to be just another far dream for his son, just another experience to brag about. That was how children worked. They eventually move on and forget. He was going to have to be the one who forgets, too. “I’m going to be. Hamish is just a child, he’ll forget him.” His answer didn’t seem to appease Clara, but she kept quiet.

 

 

They were startled by a loud banging on the door. Harry started to stand up, but John stopped him. “I’ll get it, don’t worry.” He said as he walked towards the door. He opened it, and saw a rather disheveled and fuming Greg.

 

 

“Greg-“

 

 

“You utterly stupid berk!” Greg crowded him back towards the hall. “What were you thinking?!”

 

 

“Stop it!” Clara cried out as she ran towards the two men. Harry also tried her best to separate them.

 

 

John pushed Greg back. The man was practically breathing down his neck! “Calm down, Greg! What are you on about?”

 

 

Greg paced, running his fingers through his hair and pulling them in frustration. “How can you just throw away a man like Sherlock?! He’s perfect for you! You’re perfect for each other!” He shouted in anguish. For a person who wasn’t directly affected, he seemed too disturbed. Well, that’s why Greg was his best friend.

 

 

“I can’t just think about myself, Greg. I have Hamish to keep in mind. Hamish always comes first. You know that.” John responded calmly. This seemed to placate Greg’s frustration because he had stopped pacing. John had always put Hamish first, Greg knew that. He knew John had been to hell and back just to help Hamish lead a normal life.

 

 

“John,” Greg started, a heavy undertone of concern hanging in his voice. “”It’s time for you to be finally happy again.”

 

 

“I can’t-“

 

 

“Daddy.” Everyone froze as they heard the scratchy voice emerging from the stairs. Hamish walked down towards John slowly, still a bit dizzy at having just woken up. He must’ve been woken up by the ruckus they caused. So much for having a peaceful affair.

 

 

The small boy, as he reached his father, tugged on John’s pants and stretched his arms towards him. John lifted the boy up, barely small enough to fit perfectly in his arms. “I’m sorry, Hamish, were we disturbing your sleep?”

 

 

Hamish covered John’s mouth. “Yes, yes. But, I need Daddy to listen.” Everyone silently waited for the child to begin.

 

 

 

“Mr. Sherlock told me to keep this a secret, but I think it’s okay now because I’m not in the hospital anymore.” John winced at the mention of his name. He had been trying so hard to forget the actor. Hamish moved his hand away from his father’s mouth. “Mr. Sherlock came in when Daddy left for food. He said sorry a lot. He also said he will make ‘amends’. Is that food?” Hamish looked absolutely adorable, puzzled over a small word. He continued. “I made him promise, Daddy. He said he will protect us, and I made him promise that he will make you happy, Daddy. He said he will try. He said he will do everything. He promised, Daddy.” Hamish pounded on his father’s chest in insistence. He was practically pleading. “But, he said he needed your, your, your” the small boy struggled to look for the right word. His eyes lit up as he thought. “permission! Yes, he said that. And, I told him to ask you if you would let him.”

 

 

 

“Daddy,” Hamish took John’s face in his tiny hands, and squeezed his cheeks. Greg snorted at how ridiculous his best friend looked. John could just glare at him. “I am a grown up.” He puffed up his chest. “I’m a very strong boy. My teachers says so! I can take care of myself, and of course, Daddy. You are my daddy, so you being happy matters to me. A lot. I don’t want you to not be happy because of me. That makes me very, very sad.” Hamish dropped his hands from John’s face. His expression turned solemn. “So, daddy, you think again. Will Mr. Sherlock make you happy? If yes, then you should get together with him. Just no kissing in front of me.” The boy tried his best to gag at the thought.

 

 

“You heard the kid,” Greg interjected, approaching them. “Funny how a small boy knows more than an adult like you.”

 

 

“John?” Clara interrupted. Everyone turned to look at her. She was holding the small black USB stick Sherlock gave him. “Have you tried looking inside what this USB contains?”  


 

 

John, dumbfounded, shook his head. “No. I never really had the time.”

 

 

“Good thing I brought my laptop to work!” Harry gleefully took out her laptop from her bag. “John, you really are a lucky man.” She opened it, and plugged in the USB stick to the port. Everyone scooted over to view the screen.

 

 

John was surprised to find the contents of the stick. It was filled with music clips.

 

 

  1. _John Prelude.mp3_
  2. _John Second Piece (Infatuated).mp3_
  3. _John Third Piece (Waiting).mp3_
  4. _Hamish.mp3_
  5. _John You are Everything.mp3_



 

“Well, would you look at that,” Harry said, as surprised as her brother. She clicked on the _John Prelude_ file, and it opened in her music player.

 

 

 _“John,”_ no one could mistake that voice. It was as rich and velvety as he had heard when they first met. _“Yes, this is recording. If you have managed to get a hold of this USB stick, this means I have finally gotten out of my maudlin mind and resolved to.. tell you of my predicaments with regards to our continued relationship.”_ There was a hint of vulnerability in his voice. _“I do not know the result of my confession, however, I still have a promise to fulfill to you, regardless of that. As promised, I have written you songs which speak of things I cannot tell you in words. Forgive me for I have never considered this as my area. Feelings. I hope you understand, as much as your mind can, what I tell you. This is your prelude.”_

 

 

The sweet sound of the violin filled the room as Sherlock began to play. It started out rough, a rather aggressive underlying the plain notes, but then it started to come alive as high pitched notes came in. It mellowed to a fairly peaceful stream of notes after.

 

 

And, John got it. He understood. Using music, Sherlock had illustrated to him his life story, how strong and callous he had to be as a soldier, until he got deployed and had Hamish. Sherlock had characterized through a string of beautifully paired notes how happy he was when Hamish came and how hard he strived to give him the childhood he deserved. John was tempted to steal Harry’s laptop and listen to the rest of the pieces himself.

 

 

As he got out of his thoughts, he was surprised to see that everyone’s attention was on him. They were watching him. Harry was smirking. Clara smiled gently, as if to say _are you sure?_. Greg had his phone out as he winked devilishly at John. Hamish was listening intently to the recording. Looks like he was going to have a hobby. Sherlock could teach him.

 

 

Oh, god. What had he _done_? He had run away from an opportunity to finally be in love with someone who fully understands him, and loves his son as he did. Heck, even Hamish had to tell him it was okay. It was finally safe. He could finally trust someone to protect his son with him. He rubbed his hand on his face. What the bloody hell was he going to do to fix this?

 

 

“He’s in the Ritz right now. Well, he’s flying to America in a few hours, but we could catch up.” Greg interrupted his thoughts. “I brought my newly issued police car.”

 

 

“Yes!” Harry and Hamish pumped their fists in the air. “Roadtrip!”

 

 

Clara patted John’s shoulder. “Are you ready?”

 

 

John sighed as he smiled. “Come on, everyone, get in the car!”

 

 

“For the record, that’s my car!” Greg playfully shouted as he unlocked his car. Everyone went in, squeezing themselves even though there was little space. Hamish sat in the back with his aunt Harry and Clara. John was in front with Greg.

 

 

“Wait,” Harry said. “How did you know all that?”

 

 

“Well,” Greg turned away from him, sheepish. “That’s a perk of dating pretty-arsed Holmeses.”

 

 

“You’re dating Mycroft Holmes?!”

 

 

“Story for another time!” Greg turned on the engine in avoidance. “Off we go!”


	14. A New Beginning Pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been dragging this fic for three years already. THREE YEARS. How could a story with only 14 chapters take three years to write? Ugh. But, hey, we're at the end of the line. I would like to thank everyone who had supported this fic, even those who gave up waiting and those who only passed by. Your kudos, bookmarks, and comments have never failed to cheer me up. Thank you so much. I started this when I was in my last year in high school, and I figured I had to write the last chapter and let this story go. This Notting Hill AU has gone too long. Again, thank you thank you thank you for reading this. I really appreciate it I can never say enough thanks to everyone.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: you know the drill. I don't own anything. :)

“God, could the bloody traffic get any worse?!” Greg cried out, honking his horn. “For a cop, I didn’t think I would get stuck in shitty traffic! We only have forty minutes left!”

 

 

 

“Watch your mouth, Greg Lestrade. We have a kid in this car!” Clara shouted back.

 

 

 

“Dad, we’re going to be late!” Hamish shrieked.

 

 

 

Another car honked at them. “Oh, sod off! Bloody unimportant little shite!” Harry rolled down the window and raised her middle finger to prove her point.

 

 

 

“Harry!”

 

 

 

“Everybody, quiet!” John shouted, overpowering all the honks and the voices of everyone in the car. Silence ensued. “We are not going to solve anything with all this yelling.”

 

 

 

The silence continued. Nobody knew what else to do but wait for the traffic to calm. But, with only ten minutes at hand, John meeting Sherlock was coming to a nearly impossible instance.

 

 

 

Greg snapped his fingers and opened the door of his car. “Harry, drive. I’m going to handle this.”

 

 

 

“What are you going to do?” Harry said as she squeezed through Clara, Hamish and John and sat herself in the driver’s seat.

 

 

 

“Can’t believe I’m going back to traffic. I’m a DI, for christ’s sake.” He muttered under his breath as he dove into the middle of the chaotic traffic and held his hands up in the air. “Stop your arses, I’ve got a couple to reconcile!” He shouted, bringing out a whistle from his pocket and stopped the onslaught of cars. Harry took this opportunity to drive through the intersection.

 

 

 

“Buckle up, we’re going full speed for Romeo!” Harry cheered, swerving rather dangerously with a speed reaching what seemed to be 140 kilometers per hour.

 

 

 

“I’m supposed to be Juliet?” John retaliated.

 

 

 

“Who else were you supposed to be? Mercutio?”

 

 

 

Clara piped in. “I always thought Mercutio was gay for Romeo, what with the dying for him thing.”

 

 

 

John groaned. As funny as their conversation was, it wasn’t helping them get to the destination. All John wanted was to run up to Sherlock, say sorry and tell him if he’d still like to be with a broken man like him. It didn’t matter now what his insecurities were. Sherlock was the only one that mattered. He had swallowed his pride and barred himself to John because he trusted him to take care of his heart. He made himself brave. Instead, John broke it. He knew he had to do the same if he were to build Sherlock up again. And, right now, John would give anything in the world to do just that.

 

 

 

It had been quite a twenty-minute long ride, but Harry got them through quickly and safely. As soon as they stopped in front of the hotel, John ran out of the car and into the hotel. He approached the reception counter looking like a madman running for his life. “Where is the conference being held?”

 

 

 

“Right by the William Kent house, sir.” The receptionist said, his hand pointing towards the door. He nodded his thanks as he ran towards the door. Outside, he saw the William Kent house a few steps away. And, just as he did in the hotel, he ran.

 

 

 

Pushing the doors open to the mansion, he was stopped upon entry by a security guard. John groaned.

 

 

 

“Sir, I’m afraid you have to show identification before I let you into the function room. Which magazine or paper are you from?” The guard asked, lifting his list of guests.

 

 

 

John brought out his wallet, took a random card out, and made his face convincing as he can.

 

 

 

“Sir, that’s a discount card for the cinema.”

 

 

 

“This is our new promo card. I work for…Rotten Tomatoes?” He awkwardly smiled professionally. He knew he wasn’t going to get in through this.

 

 

 

Fortunately, Clara strut in with Hamish in tow. She looked like the epitome of a rich heiress with her lilac dress. John noticed she redid her make-up and put on some glittery earrings. Hamish puffed his chest, in sync with his aunt’s act.

 

 

 

“Put him through, he’s my assistant.” Amazing. She even changed her accent. Now, she sounded like one of those pompous business women. “I work for Vogue, and if you do not let him through this instant, I am going to have to call my manager.” She fished out a card from her handbag. This made John more surprised. It really was an ID for Vogue.

 

 

 

The security guard backed down and opened the door to the function room. “My apologies, Miss Watson. You and your assistant may go.”

 

 

 

“Clara, how-“

 

 

 

“New job. It's Harry's surprise,” she winked. “Go on, catch your man.”

 

 

 

“Daddy, go!” Hamish said as he pumped his fist in the air.  He smiled at them gratefully, and ran inside the function room. Thankfully, the opening of the door didn’t seem to garner much attention. There were hoards of reporters with cameras and notebooks in tow around an elevated stage. On the stage, covered by a long table, sat a bored Mycroft and most especially, a blank Sherlock. John could tell the man was listening to the questions, but he looked like he was trying to hide something. He had to be careful not to beat himself up and let his insecurities get to him once again for making Sherlock look that way. He wanted to see the Sherlock who laughed and smiled genuinely at him when they had a case or when he had stayed over for the night.

 

 

 

He wanted his Sherlock back, not this shell of a man.

 

 

 

 _His_ Sherlock. When did he become so possessive of him?

 

 

 

“Mr. Holmes, there are rumors spreading that you are going to be on hiatus for about two years. Is that true?”

 

 

 

Sherlock lifted the mic he apparently held in his hand as he answered. “Those aren’t rumors. I will truly be taking a hiatus in acting.”

 

 

 

“Is your hiatus somewhat related to the recent death of Jim Moriarty?”

 

 

 

John saw Sherlock flinch. But, he hid it well. The memory still must’ve haunted him. “No, it is not. I pay my respects to his death, but I am not grieving for him.” He stopped and gulped. “I’m sure you’ve all seen the news that Jim was a horrible man. He did crimes for which he did not pay for. I will not grieve for a man who had less morals than I did.” That made John laugh, in a very grotesque way. The reporters who heard him stared at him with judgment.

 

 

 

“In your recent stay in England, you were photographed with a British man in a rather compromising attire. What had happened to this man?”

 

 

 

Sherlock paused, looking at the table first before lifting his gaze towards the reporter. “I do not know his whereabouts as of now. We were friends, and he let me stay over his house for a night. That was all there is to it. We are still friends, I think.”

 

 

 

“Dominic, yes, please ask your question.” He heard Mycroft say as he pointed to the man wearing the gray suit and a rather atrocious fake beard. John swore it was a fake beard.

 

 

 

“Right. So, Sherlock, how long will you stay in London?”

 

 

 

“Around two hours, at most,” He said in a neutral tone, but John knew better. He was holding back. “I will be leaving for America tonight.”

 

 

 

Hearing that made John’s heart beat in urgency. He had to do something. He had to stop him from leaving. He still had a lot to say to Sherlock. Unconsciously, he raised his hand. Mycroft’s eyes stopped on his hand, and smirked as he saw the blonde man. “John Watson,” he started. Sherlock perked up at the mention of his name. His eyes searched the crowd as they locked onto his. “Ask your question.”

 

 

 

“Hello,” he started, not quite knowing what to really ask. He had raised his hand in the spur of the moment. Oh well. He had to do this, or else he’d risk losing Sherlock forever. “Mr. Holmes, I would like to ask if, let’s say, uh,” he couldn’t even pass for a journalist. He had tripped over his words. “Were there any circumstances or instances in which, uh, the man you were caught with might initiate some sort of… development in your relationship? Let’s say, being more than friends?”

 

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes betrayed no emotion. He kept them locked on John, and it was killing him just to be stared at like that. Like he was nothing to Sherlock at all. “He made it very clear that our relationship had no hopes of escalating.”  


 

 

“Right,” John licked his lips. This was a tough one. Well, he broke his heart. He had to suffer some kind of repercussion. “I was wondering if, by some chance, this man might have had realized he made the wrong choice and begged you on his knees with a plate of digestives and cold cases he stole from the Met“ -he heard a “Hey!” in the background, which meant Greg caught up- “to reconsider your relationship with him and stay, would you be willing to.. reconsider?”

 

 

 

The crowd grew louder with their chattering. But, John didn’t care. He had his eyes trained on Sherlock. Sherlock nearly dropped the mic when he heard John. His eyes searched the man, looking for any trace of lie in his body language. But, he wasn’t going to find any. John was fully in this for the long run. He wanted to be with Sherlock. He wasn’t going to let anything come between them again. In the past, he had been tossed aside by Sherlock a handful of times. That hurt him a lot, but John knew that he wouldn’t do it in any other way. He would wait for Sherlock. He would always wait for him. Sherlock offered him what nobody else could, not even Mary: a love he could hold on to, no matter how many months had passed, a satisfaction for his danger lust, and a person who relied on him in so many ways and did not expect John to be anything but himself. Sherlock loved him and his son. He wasn’t going to find any other man in the entire world who could be like him. He wasn’t going to let go of this idiot again.

 

 

 

When Sherlock was done with him, his eyes grew softer. That was when John knew he had penetrated the barrier. Sherlock was letting him in. The git smirked and crossed his arms. “Well, that depends.”

 

 

 

“On what?” John asked, genuinely curious. What could Sherlock want?

 

 

 

“If he’s really willing to do that,” He replied. “I believe this is what people call ‘having the ball in his court’.”

 

 

 

John, exasperated yet happy he wasn’t rejected, sighed as he slowly got down on his knees, one foot at a time to not agitate his PTSD, and kneeled. He didn’t notice the crowd parting on where he kneeled. “He may not have the biscuits and the files right now because he didn’t exactly plan on begging you back today.” He heard the crowd laugh. He wasn’t daft. He knew everyone knew it was him. “But, Sherlock, please.” He held the lanky man’s gaze. “Please stay with me.”

 

 

 

“John.” He heard Sherlock gasp as he jumped over the table, bewildering Mycroft, and running towards him. He kneeled once he was in front of John, cupped his face, and leaned so their foreheads touched. “Do you really mean that?” He could see a tiny trickle on the lanky man’s cheek.

 

 

 

“Yes,” he whispered. “It’s always yes, Sherlock. It’s always all for you.” He chuckled. “I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t want to admit it sooner. I’m sorry I almost didn’t fight for you.” John used his thumb to wipe away the tear that had escaped Sherlock’s control.

 

 

 

“I forgive you, John, I forgive you,” Sherlock was peppering his face with kisses. His hands were shaking, but it was no issue to John. “John, you have to be sure about this, you have to be, I can’t, I can’t do this, knowing someday you’re going to leav-“

 

 

 

“Sherlock, shh,” he whispered as he held Sherlock’s hands in his to stop him from shaking and frantically touching him. He gave his fingers a gentle kiss. “I will always be sure about this, about us. I promise that, until you are old and wrinkly and you can’t even jump over a table just to get to me, I am always going to choose you and be sure about it. I love you, I love you, I love you.” He said as he smiled, closing the distance between their mouths and kissing him. The numerous news clippings they’re going to have to deal with could go sod itself.

 

 

 

 _They’re_. It sounded right to John. Finally, he wasn’t alone anymore. He had Sherlock.

 

 

 

Sherlock smiled as their lips parted. “I love you, too, John. My John.”

 

 

“Let’s get out of here,” John said. “This is chaotic.”

 

 

 

“Oh, yes, do get out.” They heard an annoyed voice coming from behind Sherlock. They looked up to see Mycroft holding Greg by the ear. “Go and leave me to deal with your mess again. I do so love cleaning up after you, brother.”

 

 

 

“Piss off, Mycroft.” Sherlock said, not even turning around and burying his face on John’s shoulder.

 

 

 

“I shouldn’t have agreed to do this with you, Gregory.” Mycroft sighed heavily. “You are nothing but a nuisance.”

 

 

 

“A nuisance with an arse that you’ve just fucked all night last night!” Greg exclaimed proudly. Mycroft slapped him. John gave his pity to Greg, who was now sporting a very red cheek for that.

 

 

 

“That’s for your vulgarity. As you have obviously tried to ignore, I am trying to prevent my brother and his lover’s reunion from being a target of gossip in the next few weeks. Do not add to anymore of that by mentioning our… ‘activities’.” He towered over Greg, who patted his behind and ran away as fast as he could. The childish bugger.

 

 

 

Mycroft grimaced, but he had no choice but to leave it alone. “Go, brother.” His eyes softened, and he flashed a small smile. “Leave, and let me take care of this. Congratulations.”

 

 

 

There was an eye-to-eye conversation which John couldn’t comprehend, but after that, Sherlock stood up and pulled John with him. He muttered a ‘thank you’, which was almost not audible enough, before leaving the place with him.

 

* * *

 

“John,” his husband whispered, trying to keep quiet as much as he can. They were hiding inside a closet in a very unfamiliar building. They heard the footsteps coming near them, so they stopped moving. It was quite hard not to move, especially when said husband’s crotch is pressed against your own. They were hardly young enough to closet sex, but hey, no one was going to judge. Their hormones, unfortunately, were something they couldn’t cater to at the moment since they had a total of 8 armed and bulky men on their tail. This wasn’t exactly what John had planned for the honeymoon, but as long as Sherlock was enjoying, he might as well do it.

 

 

“Keep quiet, you git. They’re going to hear you,” He whispered back, struggling to squeeze his hand holding his gun in a more comfortable position. This led to their crotches rubbing a little against each other. John had to hold back a moan.

 

 

 

“John, I’m horny. We’re in a closet,” Sherlock whispered back, grimacing as he stared at their almost-in-contact crotches. John giggled.

 

 

 

“Don’t blame me. You wanted to solve this case rather than be in a ‘sex holiday’ with me.”

 

 

 

“But, John.” He could see Sherlock getting irritated now. “We’re in a closet.”

 

 

 

“So what?”

 

 

 

“John. Stereotypical closet sex, please.”

 

 

 

“Adding ‘please’ to that doesn’t make it exactly feasible to do right now, Sherlock.”

 

 

 

Sherlock groaned. “Fine. After the case.”

 

 

 

John grinned. “Good. Are you ready? I’d rather be fucking you into the mattress tonight than playing hide and seek with these buggers.”

 

 

 

“Don’t forget to call Hamish tonight. He wants to know whether we’re bringing him home some sort of exotic pet. He thinks we’re having our honeymoon in Madagascar.” Sherlock reminded as he fished out a gun from his pocket. That was John’s wedding gift to Sherlock. He figured he needed the gun because even though Sherlock had stepped out of Hollywood permanently, his popularity didn’t waver. This helped his new career as a consulting detective flourish. However, this attracted more criminals to go after him, especially since it was partly because of him that the criminal world lost a very important leader. They couldn’t entirely fault it in Sherlock, though. Jim Moriarty took his life with his own will.

 

 

 

“And, whose fault exactly was that? I wasn’t the one telling him stories about animal mating.”

 

 

“John, focus. In three seconds, we will be breaking this door and running to the exit you told Lestrade to use to corner them.” Sherlock kissed John’s forehead (it became a habit when they got into difficult situations), and started counting under his breath. At the third count, they opened the door and ran like madmen.

 

 

 

And, John wouldn’t have things any other way. This was his life with Sherlock, and he was going to live it until the end of their days.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, that's it! Sorry for putting notes before and after the story. But, I really needed to thank everyone. Thank you thank you thank you (sorry for being tedious). I don't know whether I'll be writing another multi-chaptered story (because I clearly suck at it). I hope you enjoyed this story. If you want to read more of my works, you could go on to my page here. I can also be contacted through Tumblr (less-than-improbable.tumblr.com). It gets kind of lonely there, since I mostly do reblogs and don't talk to a lot of people. :(
> 
> ONCE AGAIN, HUGE THANKS FOR READING!


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